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.