Slowly from the western hill-sides

Fades the sunset's ruddy light,

While the birds amid the tree-tops

Softly chirp their sweet "Good-night."

Where the elm trees' spreading branches

Hide the streamlets with their shades,

Stands the fair-faced, blue-eyed Dolly,

Flower of all the village maids,—

Looking, in the growing twilight,

Towards the grassy fields ahead,

Listening still, with eye expectant,

For the ever-welcome tread.

From across the verdant meadow

Comes a whistle, loud and shrill,

Sounding through the evening stillness,

Seemeth but the whip-poor-will.

But the fair face glows still brighter,

And the eyes more eager grow,

As the notes come near and nearer,

Louder than the streamlet's flow.

Soon she hears the well-known music

Of his voice, borne on the air:

"Don't you hear me coming, Dolly?

Dolly, dear, I'll soon be there."

And the one she's long been waiting,

Hat upraised, now comes in sight,

Hastening towards the blue-eyed maiden,

Waiting in the soft twilight.

Happy hearts, so young and trusting,

May no frost e'er blight your love,

But may blessings all unnumbered

Fall upon you from above!