’t is the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather,
For a bird to trill and warble, all his wee red breast a-swell.
I ’ve a secret. You may listen till your blue eyes dance and glisten,
Little maiden, but I ’ll never, never, never, never tell.
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What will you give to a barefoot lass, Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass, |
What fragrant-footed comer |