At The Stile.

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her, Over the stile the stars a-winking; He thought it was Mary—'t was Mary's sister— And love hath a way of thinking. "Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry."— Over the stile the stars hang yellow.— "Just to the spring, my sweetheart Harry."— And love is a heartless fellow. "Thou saidst me yea when the frost did shower Over the stile from stars a-shiver."— "I say thee nay now the cherry-trees flower, And love is taker and giver." "O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!"— Over the stile the stars a-glister. "To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart, I never was aught save Mary's sister. "Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry, Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping: In a month or twain you two will marry— And I in my grave be sleeping." Alone among the meadows of millet, Over the stile the stars pursuing, Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it— And love hath a way of doing.