Songs for soprano or tenor , opus 12

It's pleasant to rest on a stile at noon 
  When the meadow's aflower and the month is June,
And to take your ease on a summer day 
  When nobody's likely to pass that way.

And it's pleasant to whistle and walk a mile 
  For the sake of passing a certain stile,
When it isn't likely that one would care 
  If somebody chanced to be resting there.

Beat upon mine, little heart, beat, beat;
Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet;
All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,
                                                 my sweet:
Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss,
For I give you this, and I give you this,
And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss,
                                               sleep!
Father and Mother will watch you grow,
And gather the roses where ever they blow,
And find the white heather where ever you go,
                                             my sweet, my sweet.

A maiden sits in her bower and sings, 
And your heart keeps time to the tune ; 
In the garden walks the red rose springs, 
The month is June. 

The month is June, and full are the days, 
Fair days, of the summer fed ; 
And softly the singer sings her lays : 
Her lips are red. 

A face she has that is pale as Sleep, 
And hair like the midnight skies 
When the wings of tempest across them sweep, 
And strange dark eyes. 

The song she sings is a siren's song, 
A tempting, dangerous rune, 
If you hark at all you will hear too long 
That fatal tune. 

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
   But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
   And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
   And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
   Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
   "And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
   He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
   Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
   But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
   Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
   The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
   In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
   Since he kissed them and put them there. 

The roses of yesteryear,
Were all of them white and red;
It fills my heart with silent fear,
To find all their beauty fled.

The roses of white are sere,
All faded the roses red,
And one who loves me is not here,
And one that I love is dead.