| |
| TURN, turn, for my cheeks they burn, | |
| Turn by the dale, my Harry! | |
| Fill pail, fill pail, | |
| He has turned by the dale, | |
| And there by the stile waits Harry. | 5 |
| Fill, fill, | |
| Fill pail, fill, | |
| For there by the stile waits Harry! | |
| The world may go round, the world may stand still, | |
| But I can milk and marry, | 10 |
| Fill pail, | |
| I can milk and marry. | |
| |
| Wheugh, wheugh! | |
| O, if we two | |
| Stood down there now by the water, | 15 |
| I know who ’d carry me over the ford | |
| As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord, | |
| Though I don’t live over the water. | |
| Wheugh, wheugh! he ’s whistling through. | |
| He ’s whistling “The Farmer’s Daughter.” | 20 |
| Give down, give down, | |
| My crumpled brown! | |
| He shall not take the road to the town, | |
| For I ’ll meet him beyond the water. | |
| Give down, give down, | 25 |
| My crumpled brown! | |
| And send me to my Harry. | |
| The folk o’ towns | |
| May have silken gowns, | |
| But I can milk and marry, | 30 |
| Fill pail, | |
| I can milk and marry. | |
| |
| Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through, | |
| He has whistled through the water. | |
| Fill, fill, with a will, a will, | 35 |
| For he ’s whistled through the water, | |
| And he ’s whistling down | |
| The way to the town, | |
| And it ’s not “The Farmer’s Daughter!” | |
| Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer, | 40 |
| The sun sets over the water, | |
| Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer, | |
| I ’m too late for my Harry! | |
| And, O, if he goes a-soldiering, | |
| The cows they may low, the bells they may ring, | 45 |
| But I ’ll neither milk nor marry, | |
| Fill pail, | |
| Neither milk nor marry. | |
| |
| My brow beats on thy flank, Fill pail, | |
| Give down, good wench, give down! | 50 |
| I know the primrose bank, Fill pail, | |
| Between him and the town. | |
| Give down, good wench, give down, Fill pail, | |
| And he shall not reach the town! | |
| Strain, strain! he ’s whistling again, | 55 |
| He ’s nearer by half a mile. | |
| More, more! O, never before | |
| Were you such a weary while! | |
| Fill, fill! he ’s crossed the hill, | |
| I can see him down by the stile, | 60 |
| He ’s passed the hay, he ’s coming this way, | |
| He ’s coming to me, my Harry! | |
| Give silken gowns to the folk o’ towns, | |
| He ’s coming to me, my Harry! | |
| There ’s not so grand a dame in the land, | 65 |
| That she walks to-night with Harry! | |
| Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon, | |
| O, I can milk and marry, | |
| Fill pail, | |
| I can milk and marry. | 70 |
| |
| Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through, | |
| My Harry! my lad! my lover! | |
| Set the sun and fall the dew, | |
| Heigh-ho, merry world, what ’s to do | |
| That you ’re smiling over and over? | 75 |
| Up on the hill and down in the dale, | |
| And along the tree-tops over the vale | |
| Shining over and over, | |
| Low in the grass and high in the bough, | |
| Shining over and over, | 80 |
| O world, have you ever a lover? | |
| You were so dull and cold just now, | |
| O world, have you ever a lover? | |
| I could not see a leaf on the tree, | |
| And now I could count them, one, two, three, | 85 |
| Count them over and over, | |
| Leaf from leaf like lips apart, | |
| Like lips apart for a lover. | |
| And the hillside beats with my beating heart, | |
| And the apple-tree blushes all over, | 90 |
| And the May bough touched me and made me start, | |
| And the wind breathes warm like a lover. | |
| |
| Pull, pull! and the pail is full, | |
| And milking ’s done and over. | |
| Who would not sit here under the tree? | 95 |
| What a fair, fair thing ’s a green field to see! | |
| Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me! | |
| I have set my pail on the daisies! | |
| It seems so light,—can the sun be set? | |
| The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, | 100 |
| I could cry to have hurt the daisies! | |
| Harry is near, Harry is near, | |
| My heart ’s as sick as if he were here, | |
| My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, | |
| He hasn’t uttered a word as yet, | 105 |
| But the air ’s astir with his praises. | |
| My Harry! | |
| The air ’s astir with your praises. | |
| |
| He has scaled the rock by the pixy’s stone, | |
| He ’s among the kingcups,—he picks me one, | 110 |
| I love the grass that I tread upon | |
| When I go to my Harry! | |
| He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe, | |
| There ’s never a faster foot I know, | |
| But still he seems to tarry. | 115 |
| O Harry! O Harry! my love, my pride, | |
| My heart is leaping, my arms are wide! | |
| Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, | |
| Roll up, and bring my Harry! | |
| They may talk of glory over the sea, | 120 |
| But Harry ’s alive, and Harry ’s for me, | |
| My love, my lad, my Harry! | |
| Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, | |
| What cares Dolly, whether or no, | |
| While I can milk and marry? | 125 |
| Right or wrong, and wrong or right, | |
| Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight, | |
| But I ’ll bring my pail home every night | |
| To love, and home, and Harry! | |
| We ’ll drink our can, we ’ll eat our cake, | 130 |
| There ’s beer in the barrel, there ’s bread in the bake. | |
| The world may sleep, the world may wake, | |
| But I shall milk and marry, | |
| And marry, | |
| I shall milk and marry. | 135 |
| |
