Lucy

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still: My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale; The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill All silent comes the balmy gale; Yet, so lightly on its way, Seems to whisper 'Holiday.' The pathway flowers that bending meet And give the Meads their yellow hue, The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet Reserve their fragrance all for you. Why then, Lucy, why delay? Let us share the Holiday. Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, Are with unfeigned rapture seen, To Beauty be the homage paid; Come, claim the triumph of the Green. Here's my hand, come, come away; Share the merry Holiday. A promise too my Lucy made, (And shall my heart its claim resign?) That ere May-flowers again should fade, Her heart and hand should both be mine. Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May; Love shall crown our Holiday.