Come with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our
Of the milk of the white goat,
Or wine, if it be thy will;
And we will talk
Talk is a truble, too,
Out in the side of the hill,
And nothing is left to do,
But an eye to look into an
And a hand in a hand to slip,
And a sigh to answer a sigh,
And a lip to find out a lip:
What if the night be
And the air on the mountain chill,
Where the goat lies down in her
And all but the fern is still!
Stay with me under my coat,
And we will drink our
Of the milk of the white
Out on the side of the hill.
