Two Songs , opus 5

Oh, I would live in a dairy,
 And its Colin I would be,
And many a rustic fairy
 Should churn the milk with me.

Or the fields should be my pleasure,
 And my flocks should follow me,
Piping a frolic measure
 For Joan or Marjorie.

For the town is black and weary,
 And I hate the London street;
But the country ways are cheery,
 And country lanes are sweet.

Good luck to you, Paris ladies!
 Ye are over fine and nice,
I know where the country maid is,
 Who needs not asking twice.

Ye are brave in your silks and satins,
 As ye mince about the Town;
But her feet go free in pattens,
 If she wear a russet gown.

If she be not queen nor goddess
 She shall milk my brown-eyed herds,
And the breasts beneath her bodice
 Are whiter than her curds.

So I will live in a dairy,
 And its Colin I will be,
And its Joan that I will marry,
 Or, haply, Marjorie.

In your mother's apple-orchard,
 Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
 The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
 To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne?
 As I remember yet.

In your mother's apple-orchard,
 When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
 But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
 When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne!
 That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight,
 We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
 For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
 Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne?
 That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer,
 When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
 Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
 To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne!
 How swiftly the days passed?

In your mother's apple-orchard
 It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
 You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
 But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
 And I shall soon forget.