Milking O' The Kye
By John Clare
Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, Fresh as carnations newly blown, And o'er the pasture every morn Goes milking o' the kye. She sings her songs of happy glee, While round her swirls the humble bee; The butterfly, from tree to tree, Goes gaily flirting by. Young Jenny was a bonny thing As ever wakened in the Spring, And blythe she to herself could sing At milking o' the kye. She loved to hear the old crows croak Upon the ash tree and the oak, And noisy pies that almost spoke At milking o' the kye. She crop't the wild thyme every night, Scenting so sweet the dewy light, And hid it in her breast so white At milking o' the kye. I met and clasped her in my arms, The finest flower on twenty farms; Her snow-white breast my fancy warms At milking o' the kye.
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"Young Jenny wakens at the dawn,..."
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