The Fickle Breeze

Sighing softly to the

Comes the loving breeze,

Setting nature all a-quiver,

Rustling through the trees!

And the brook in rippling

Laughs for very love,

While the poplars, in their pleasure,

Wave their arms above!

River, river, little river,

May thy loving prosper ever.

Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,

May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,

When he wings away,

Brook and poplar mourn a lover!

Sighing well-a-day!

Ah, the doing and

That the rogue could tell!

When the breeze is out a-wooing,

Who can woo so well?

Pretty brook, thy dream is over,

For thy love is but a rover!

Sad the lot of poplar trees,

Courted by the fickle breeze!