In the meadows silk grasses we see the black snail
Creaping out at the close of the eve sipping dew
While even's on star glitters over the vale
Like a lamp hung outside of that of blue
I walk with my truelove adown the green vale
The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe
In the white thorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale
And the blades of the grass are sprinkled with dew.


If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck
As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose
Her wisper none hears and the kisses I take
The mild hues of Even'will never disclose
Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek
That blushed like the brier in the hedge hung with dew
Her wisper was fragrance her face was so meek
The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.
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