Whither away, thou little careless rover? (Kind Roger's true) Whither away, across yon bents and clover, Wet, wet with dew? Roger here, Roger there -- Roger -- O, he sighed, Yet let me glean among the wheat, Nor sit kind Roger's bride. What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, What wilt thou do? The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended (Kind Roger's true). Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, When they cease to frown I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, And cry them up the town. What if at last thy careless heart awaking This day thou rue? I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, Kind Roger's true; Roger here, Roger there, O, my true love sighed, Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet And rest kind Roger's bride. |