In flowery July upon Healey's proud Height,
As the plover sprung from the morass,
And southward the cuckoo was taking his flight,
And the corncrake was deep in the grass;
The swallow and swift were aloft in the air,
And the starling was feeding her young;
The milkmaid was tending her cattle with care,
And the haymakers cheerfully sung –
'The maidens of Burnley in satin or silk,
Are pretty, I freely confess;
But give me the maid who is neatly arrayed
In a beautiful calico dress".
They may praise the Italian ladies in vain,
Or the maidens of France or Peru,
Or worship the languishing beauties of Spain,
And the blushing Circassians, too.
But she whom I love has an eye like a sloe,
And her cheeks are like roses in June,
So graceful each step as she trips like a doe,
And her sweet ruby lips are in tune.
'The maidens of Burnley in satin or silk,
Are pretty, I freely confess;
But give me the maid who is neatly arrayed
In a beautiful calico dress".
Should fortune or friendship impel me to roam,
Or a thirst after changes constrain,
I'd still call the banks of Old Healey my home,
And I'd sing of its beauties again.
Sweet gardens of roses, or art-cultured bowers,
May delight a poor soul to possess;
But give me Old Healy, bedecked with wild flowers,
And the girl in the calico dress.
'The maidens of Burnley in satin or silk,
Are pretty, I freely confess;
But give me the maid who is neatly arrayed
In a beautiful calico dress".