’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.

You ’ll find no more wary piper, till the strawberries wax riper
  In December than in...