While I’m singing my song
from Maple Hills above,
down there in the valley 
I am heard by my love.

I keep singing my song,
standing behind the barn;
I am heard by my love,
saddling his black equine.

He hears me, he hears me,
but can’t tell who I am.
My dearest love’s own tune
does not sound quite the same.

He hears me, he hears me,
he’s near the window pane:
Hear it too, mother dear,
my dearest love’s own tune.

I hear her, I hear her,
but can’t tell who for sure.
Hear her too, mother dear,
the daughter of the squire.

The daughter of the squire
is beautiful indeed,
surely born at the time
when violets bloomed.