‘May I go to the field,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Where the corn grows sweet and high?’
‘Is there aught on the stile,’ said the old, old mother,
‘Or what do I there espy?’
‘'Tis a shepherd's lad, but he dreams in his place,
And he will not rise to slay.’
‘Oh, do not trust to an idle hand,
So stay, my little one, stay.’
‘There comes one now,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Through the corn so sweet and high.’
‘And so there are two,’ laughed the old, old mother,
‘And you dare not pass them by.’
‘'Tis a farmer's lass, and she sings as she comes,
And she smiles upon her way.’
‘Is she young, is she fair, as she lilts her song?
Now say, my pretty one, say.’
‘She is gold as the field,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Where the sun all day doth lie;
She is fair as the snow is, my old, old mother,
And grey as the mist her eye.’
‘If the lass be fair, as you say that she be,
With her hair like the setting sun—
Oh, he never will wait to look on you,
So run, my little one, run.’