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HOP-PICKING.
19
Blossom of the bine is she,
Gathered in my haste
Who would give so fair a thing
Such a bitter taste ?
Who would think, for such a thing,
I my life should waste ?
Swaying lightly to and fro,
Blossom of the bine ;
Any hand may gather it,
Any hand but mine ;
Any staff will serve for it,
Such a clinging vine !
MARY.
Some one looks away from me, —
Let him look away ;
Other men will wait on me,
Gladly, all the day,
If I had but heart enough
Always to be gay !
