Upon the well-till’d height.
When ’neath the linden tree，
Young folks I chance to see，
I set them moving soon；
His nose the dull lad curls，
The formal maiden whirls，
Obedient to my tune.
Wings to the feet ye lend，
O’er hill and vale ye send
The lover far from home；
When shall I， on your breast，
Ye kindly muses， rest，
And cease at length to roam？