MERRY, lark-like, merry,
At the break of day,
Polly meeteth Harry
Coming down the way;
And her lips, they quiver,
When her eyes discover
Smiles that speak—ah never
Peace unto the May.

Merry, blythe and merry,
'Neath the noontide ray,
Polly meeteth Harry
Coming up the way
And his accents put her
Fond heart in a flutter—
And no tongue can utter
What her looks betray.

Merry, yet so merry,
At the close of day,
Polly spyeth Harry
Wooing Ely Gray!
And when this she spyeth,
Lo! her reason dieth,
And her heart rent, cryeth
'Woe, and well-a-day!'