We played beside the little rill
That flows to larger river;
We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,
The robins piped upon the hill,
And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:
Then she, we played, was little Jill,
And I was Jack, her lover.
But floating down the little stream
Toward the larger river,
The rippling of the waves did seem
The fading music of a dream,
For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;
And Jill forgot the hour supreme
When I was Jack, her lover.