Song

There's the daisy, the woodbine,
And crow-flower so golden;
There's the wild rose, the eglantine,
And May-buds unfolding;
There are flowers for my fairy,
And bowers for my love:
Wilt thou gang with me, Mary,
To the banks of Brooms-grove?

There's the thorn-bush and the ash-tree
To shield thee from the heat,
While the brook to refresh thee
Runs close by thy feet;
The thrushes are chanting clear,
In the pleasures of love;
Thou'rt the only thing wanting here
Mid the sweets of Brooms-grove.

Then come ere a minute's gone,
Since the long summer's day
Puts her wings swift as linnets' on
For hieing away.
Then come with no doubtings near,
To fear a false love;
For there's nothing without thee, dear,
Can please in Brooms-grove.

The woodbine may nauntle here,
In blossoms so fine,
The wild roses mantling near
In blushes may shine;
Mary queen of each blossom proves,
She's the blossom I love,
"She's the all that my bosom loves
'Mong the sweets of Brooms-grove.