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.