At The Stile.

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,
Over the stile the stars a-winking;
He thought it was Mary, 't was Mary's sister
And love hath a way of thinking.
"Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry."
Over the stile the stars hang yellow.
"Just to the spring, my sweetheart Harry."
And love is a heartless fellow.
"Thou saidst me yea when the frost did shower
Over the stile from stars a-shiver."
"I say thee nay now the cherry-trees flower,
And love is taker and giver."
"O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!"
Over the stile the stars a-glister.
"To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,
I never was aught save Mary's sister.
"Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry,
Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping:
In a month or twain you two will marry
And I in my grave be sleeping."
Alone among the meadows of millet,
Over the stile the stars pursuing,
Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it
And love hath a way of doing.