SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. 



Up the dale and down the bourne, 



O'er the meadow swift we fly; 

 Now we sing, and now we mourn, 



Now we whistle, now we sigh. 



By the grassy-fringed river, 



Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; 

 'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 



To their very hearts we creep. 



Now the maiden rose is blushing 



At the frolic things we say, 

 While aside her cheek we're rushing. 



Like some truant bees at play. 



Through the blooming groves we rustle, 



Kissing every bud we pass, — 

 As we did it in the bustle. 



Scarcely knowing how it was. 



