Walking Out

UPON a Sunday afternoon, When no one else was by, The little girl from Hanley way, She came and walked with I.

We climbed nigh to the Beacon top, And never word spoke we, But oh! we heard the thrushes sing Within the cherry tree.

The cherry tree was all a-bloom, And Malvern lay below, And far away the Severn wound— ’Twas like a silver bow.

She took my arm, I took her hand, And never word we said, But oh! I knew her eyes were brown, Her lips were sweet and red.

And when I brought her home again, The stars were up above, And ’twas the nightingale that swelled His little throat with love!