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.