William

When William at eve meets down by the stile,
How sweet is the nightingale?s song,
Of the day I forget all the while
When the breeze plays the branches among.
I confess without I hear him complain.
And believe every word of his song
You know not how sweet tis to love the dear swain
While the moon plays the branches among,

How fain do I wish to chace sunshine away
Ye moments how slowly ye move,
Give place envious day-light haste evening away,
I?m to meet the sweet lad that I love,
O joy past expressing to bear the dear swain,
While the moon plays yon branches among.

From the stile that we walk?d to yon neighboring grove
The swain his soft passion he prest
He said my dear dha?mer to church let?s repair,
Your hand it will e?er make me blest,
How could I refuse the dear swain his soft boon
While the moon plays yon branches among