“OH, would I might see my love,” sang he,
As he dreamed in his true heart of her,
As he rode that day up the highway wide,
With his feathers gay, and the lute at his side;
“Oh, would I might see my love,” sang he,
“My love that knows not I love her.”
“Oh, would I might see my love,” sang she,
As she sat in the porch above him,
With the web half-spun in her fingers fair,
And a ray of the sun in her brown, brown hair;
“Oh, would I might see my love,” sang she,
“My love that knows not I love him.”
Then as their eyes met, with a start I forget
Whether shame, or delight, or sorrow,
The sky in its glow seemed to interest her,
And he bent very low to fasten his spur;
But “Oh, would I might see my love,”—dear me!
They sang it no more till the morrow.