Ann Mounsey Bartholomew
2 voix · Voice, Piano
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Up the hill, and down the bourn, O’er the meadows swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the fringed grassy river, Through the murm’ring reeds we sweep, Mid the lily leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing At the frolic things we say, While, aside [her] cheek we’re rushing, Like some truant Bees at play, Like some truant Bees at play. Down, down the glen, across the mountain O’er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain, ’Til its lit tle break ers foam. ’Til its little breakers foam. Bending down the weeping Willows, While our vesper hymn we sigh, Then, unto our rosy pillows, On our weary wings we hie. On our weary wings we hie.
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