Of all the spots for making love, Give me a shady dairy,With crimson tiles, and blushing smiles From its presiding fairy;The jolly sunbeams peeping in Thro' vine leaves all a-flutter,Like greetings sent from Phoebus to The Goddess of Fresh Butter.
The swallows twittering in the eaves, The air of Summer blowingThro' open door from where a score Of tall rose-trees are growing,A distant file of hollyhocks, A rugged bush of tansy,And nearer yet beside the steps A gorgeous purple pansy;
Suggestive scents of new-mown hay, From lowland meadows coming;The distant ripple of a stream, And drowsy sounds of hummingFrom able-bodied bees that bevy About the morning-glory,Or dawdle pleasantly around The apple-blossoms hoary.
A rosy bloom pervades the spot; And where the shadows darkle,In glittering rows the shining pans Show many a brilliant sparkle.As snowy as my lady's throat, Or classic marble urn,In central floor there proudly stands The scourèd white-wood churn.
And she who reigns o'er churn and pan-- In truth, my friend, between us,My dimpled Chloe is more fair Than Milo's famous Venus.Mark, mark those eyes so arch and dark, Those lips like crimson clover,And ask yourself, as well you may, How I could prove a rover.
Talk not to me of moonlit groves, Of empress, belle, or fairy;To me the fairest love of loves Is Chloe of the Dairy.
The swallows twittering in the eaves, The air of Summer blowingThro' open door from where a score Of tall rose-trees are growing,A distant file of hollyhocks, A rugged bush of tansy,And nearer yet beside the steps A gorgeous purple pansy;
Suggestive scents of new-mown hay, From lowland meadows coming;The distant ripple of a stream, And drowsy sounds of hummingFrom able-bodied bees that bevy About the morning-glory,Or dawdle pleasantly around The apple-blossoms hoary.
A rosy bloom pervades the spot; And where the shadows darkle,In glittering rows the shining pans Show many a brilliant sparkle.As snowy as my lady's throat, Or classic marble urn,In central floor there proudly stands The scourèd white-wood churn.
And she who reigns o'er churn and pan-- In truth, my friend, between us,My dimpled Chloe is more fair Than Milo's famous Venus.Mark, mark those eyes so arch and dark, Those lips like crimson clover,And ask yourself, as well you may, How I could prove a rover.
Talk not to me of moonlit groves, Of empress, belle, or fairy;To me the fairest love of loves Is Chloe of the Dairy.
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