(A Ballad.)
When the lark is at rest, in her grass-woven nest,
And the lapwing at even is seeking her home ;
When the last light of day is just dying away,
And the ring-plover's sleeping among the green broom,
And the plover sleeps in the green broom.

When silence prevails o'er the hills and the dales.
And day with its noise and its labour is o'er.
O then comes a sound, which makes my heart bound.
For Charley comes whistling over the moor,
O Charley comes over the moor.

Yet, once it was said, that a wealthy youno- maid
Had wiled ofF his heart, with her wealth and her store,
And my heart died away, as I heard people say,
'Now he'll never go whistling over the moor,'
No, he'll never go over the moor !

And yet, if he should, why where'd be the good,
In his impudent face I would shut the front door.
And thus 7nust I speak, altho' my heart break,
'Sir, you may go back again over the moor,'
'Yes, back again over the moor !'

But quickly I knew that Charley was true—
O his lieart was a treasure not won by her store,
And in spite of my pride, O anger soon died
When I thought he'll now come again over the moor,
Yes—whistling over the moor.

When the day went to rest, with a smile in the west,
I, some-how or other, was out by the door.
And my heart grew so weak, that tears stole down my cheek
When I saw the brave fellow come over the moor,
Yes—WHISTLING over the moor.