Song to J. . . — W. . . . . —


The gnats danced o'er the waters clear
And clacking went the mill
And open was the rosey brere
That scents upon the hill
And merrily the swallow swims
Home hums the weary bee
The sun is lessening and declines
Behind the willow tree


And I'm sweet Jenney going to see
That lives behind the hill
Where she can hear as well as me
The clacking of the mill
The blue fly settles on the dock
Then swiftly flies away
The sheep boy does the cuckoo mock
While rolling taws of clay


O my Jenney is a young thing
Like blossoms seen in brooks
The primrose o' the early spring
Is nothing like her looks
The snow-flake fair o' ember week
The sweet-briar of the rill
The white-red of My Jenneys cheek
Is sweeter, fairer still


The gnats dance o'er the waters clear
And clacking goes the mill
And open is the rosey brere
That blossoms on the hill
Like dirty unthawed snow the sheep
Lie heaps about the lands
Im going my Jenneys trist to keep
For 'tis as she demands —
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