The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines like these.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! To be young once more and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

'T was ever thus from childhood's hour! My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away.

I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; 'T is that I can't remember how They go.