I ’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,
  Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin’ long ago,
  When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin’ fresh and green,
  And the lark sang loud and high—
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
  And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
  The day is...