The Lunatic's Foresight.
One morning in May, a fair maiden so gay,
Came tripping it over the moor,
And if truth, sirs, I tell, this same charming young belle,
Had been there several mornings before.
The heather was blooming—that might be the cause,
Wild strawberries were ripe to the hand,
Whilst the views round about were right lovely, no doubt,
And they might induce her to pause,
And they might induce her to pause.
Yet she stoops not to gather the sweet blooming heather,
Nor strawberries, ripe though they be,
Nor for beautiful sight turns to left or to right,
Till she reaches the old hawthorn tree.
And, see in the distance, a youth wends his way
To that very identical spot!
Now, it really seems strange that two persons should range
So soon on the moor—does it not?
So soon on the moor—does it not?
The murder is out, there'll be anger and ire
(Mark my words) very soon in that quarter,
When the Squire comes to know that the keeper*s son, Joe,
Is presumptuously courting his daughter.
Love! but for thee this fair maiden would be
In bed, I've no doubt, and a sleeper;
But by Love driven mad, see the foresight she had,
To provide herself thus with a keeper!
To provide herself thus with a keeper!
