Learn This Of Me, Where'er Thy Lot

Her Eyes The Glowworm Lend Thee, The Shooting Stars Attend Thee; And The Elves Also, Whose Little Eyes Glow Like The Sparks Of Fire, Befriend Thee.

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.