It follows up the hill and down -- The road that takes me into town; And, oh, it's many lads I meet With smiles and glances bold or sweet; Eyes that are blue maybe, or black -- But I am never smiling back. I have to hold my tongue and go As prim as if I didn't know. Ah, dear, it's hard -- this being good -- I don't like doing what I should. My basket's always heavy, too -- I need a man's strong arm, I do! I wonder why there's any harm, When all the air's so kind and warm, When smiling lads swing down the road And ask to help me with my load, In smiling back at them again -- Not every time, but now and then? |