Too honest for a gypsy, too lazy for a farmer,
What should you be but a shepherd on the hills?
Herding sheep with sad faces over grass grown places
High above a web of streams and willow trees and mills.

Too tame for a gypsy, too wild for a dairymaid,
What could I be but a silly goose girl?
Tending hissing, white snakes, by weed green lakes.
Crying in the dew fall with my hair out of curl.

Too silent for the neighbours, too simple for the townspeople,
What shall we do who love each other so?
I'll teach your grey sheep to guard you from the steep,
You'll catch me back from drowning where my dark lake lies deep.
I'll pluck a feather pillow that sings you to sleep
Up among the rocks where the blueberries grow.