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8
Who picks, and culls, and cries aloud,
“Sweet lilies of the valley!"
From whistling o’er the harrow’d turf,
From nestling in each tree
I chose a soldier’s life to wed,
So social gay and free:
Yet though the lasses love as well,
And often try to rally,
None pleases me like her that cries,
"Sweet lilies of the valley!"
I’m now return’d of late discharged
To use my native toil;
From fighting in my country's cause
To plough my country’s soil:
I care not which—with either pleas’d,
So I possess my Sally:
The little merry nymph that cries,
"Sweet lilies of the valley!”
FINIS.
