Classic Poem

She stood among the budding grass,
The young man by her side
He was so young,
She was so fair,
Fore the Mass, they made a lovely pair
All the yellow eventide,
With O the swathes of grass!

When the moon rose it came to pass
The maid sat there alone.
One hand on her chin,
One hand to her side,
Where her heart throbb'd the wound did chide:
The grieving bird with her made moan,
With, Woe 's my love, alas!

“Kissing her is but to be stung:
“Ware shrew!” said the swain.
“She is too fell,
“I am too meek.”
She had an angry spot in each cheek,
She drove him out with her disdain:
Sing, Woe! the scolding tongue.