Flower of the medlar,
— Crimson of the quince,
I saw her at the blossom-time,
— And loved her ever since!
She swept the draughty pleasance,
— The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
— In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,
— Redness of the red,
She went to cut the blush-rose buds
— To tie at the altar-head;
And some she laid in her bosom,
— And some around her brows,
And, as she passed, the lily-heads
— All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy,
— Yellow of the corn,
The men were at the garnering,
— A-shouting in the morn;
I chased her to a pippin-tree, —
— The waking birds all whist, —
And oh! it was the sweetest kiss
— That I have ever kissed.

Marjorie, mint, and violets
— A-drying round us set,
'Twas all done in the faience-room
— A-spicing marmalet;
On one tile was a satyr,
— On one a nymph at bay,
Methinks the birds will scarce be home
— To wake our wedding-day!