The blackcaps pipe among the reeds, And there ’ll be rain to follow; There is a murmur as of wind In every coign and hollow; The wrens do chatter of their fears While swinging on the barley-ears. Come, hurry, while there yet is time, Pull up thy scarlet bonnet. Now, sweetheart, as my love is thine, There is a drop upon it. So trip it ere the storm-hag weird Doth pluck the barley by the beard! Lo! not a whit too soon we’re housed; The storm-witch yells above us; The branches rapping on the panes Seem not in truth to love us. And look where through the clover bush The nimble-footed rain doth rush!
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