The Ferry

THERE was a gay maiden lived down by the mill,— Ferry me over the ferry,— Her hair was as bright as the waves of a rill, When the sun on the brink of his setting stands still, Her lips were as full as a cherry. A stranger came galloping over the hill,— Ferry me over the ferry,— He gave her broad silver and gold for his will: She glanced at the stranger, she glanced o’er the still, The maiden was gentle and merry. “O! what would you give for your virtue again?”— Ferry me over the ferry,— “O! silver and gold on your lordship I ’d rain, I ’d double your pleasure, I ’d double my pain, This moment forever to bury.”