A Ballad

The blackbird sings in the hazel-brake,

And the squirrel sits on the tree;

And Blanche she walks in the merry greenwood,

Down by the summer sea.

The blackbird lies when he sings of love,

And the squirrel, a thief is he;

And Blanche is an arrant flirt, I swear,

And light as light can be.

O blackbird, die in the hazel-brake!

And squirrel, starve on the tree!

And Blanche -- you may walk in the merry greenwood.

You are nothing more to me.