Whither now, blushing Claire?
Maid of the sylph-like air,
Blooming and debonair,
Whither so early?
Chasing the merry morn,
Down through the golden corn?
List'ning the hunter's horn
Ring through the barley?
“Flowerets fresh and fair,”
Answered the blushing Claire,
“Fit for my bridal hair,
Bloom‘ mongst the barley;
Hark!‘ tis the hunter's horn,
Waking the sylvan morn,
And through the yellow corn
Comes my brave Charlie.”
Through the dew-dripping grain
Pressed the heart-stricken swain,
Crushed with a weight of pain,
Drooped like the barley;
Ah! timid shepherd boy!
Man's love should ne'er be coy,
Sweet is Claire's maiden joy,
Kissing her Charlie!