A Voice of the Fields

The red was on the clover an' the blue was in the

sky;

There was music in the meadow, there was dancing

in the rye,

An' I heard her call the scattered flock in pastures

far away

An' the echo in the wooded hills: "Co' day! Co'

day! Co' day!"

O fair was she—my lady love—an' lithe as the

willow-tree,

An' like a miser's money are her parting words

t' me.

O the years are long an' lonesome since my sweet-

heart went away!

An' I think o' her as I call the flocks: "Co' day!

Co' day! Co' day!"

Her cheeks have stole the clover's red, her lips the

odored air,

An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away

in her hair;

Her voice had the meadow music, her form an'

her laughing eye

Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace

o' the bending rye.

My love has robbed the summer day—the field,

the sky, the dell,

She has carried their treasurers with her, she has

taken my heart as well;

An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should

go astray

May she hear the good God calling her: "Co' day!

Co' day! Co' day!"