THE DOVES AT MENDON
"Coo! coo! coo!" says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!
Calling the doves at Mendon!
Under the vine-clad porch she stands,
A gentle maiden with willing hands,
Dropping the grains of yellow corn.
Low and soft, like a mellow horn,
While the sunshine over her falls,
Over and over she calls and calls
"Coo! coo! coo!" to the doves—
The happy doves at Mendon.
A gentle maiden with willing hands,
Dropping the grains of yellow corn.
Low and soft, like a mellow horn,
While the sunshine over her falls,
Over and over she calls and calls
"Coo! coo! coo!" to the doves—
The happy doves at Mendon.
"Coo! coo! coo!" says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!
Calling the doves at Mendon!
Down they flutter with timid grace,
Lured by the voice and the tender face,
Till the evening air is all astir
With the happy strife and the eager whir.
One by one, and two by two,
And then a rush through the ether blue;
While Arné scatters the yellow corn
For the gentle doves at Mendon.
Lured by the voice and the tender face,
Till the evening air is all astir
With the happy strife and the eager whir.
One by one, and two by two,
And then a rush through the ether blue;
While Arné scatters the yellow corn
For the gentle doves at Mendon.
"Coo! coo! coo!" savs Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!
Calling the doves at Mendon!
