Frederick Langbridge

She flung the parlour window wide
    One eve of mid-July,
And he, as fate would have it tide,
    That moment sauntered by.
His eyes were blue and hers were brown,
    With drooping fringe of jet;
And he looked up as she looked down,
    And so their glances met.
        Things as strange, I dare to say,
        Happen somewhere every day.

A mile beyond the straggling street,
    A quiet pathway goes;
And lovers here are wont to meet,
    As all the country knows.
Now she one night at half-past eight
    Had sought that lonely lane,
When he came up, by will of fate,
    And so they met again.
        Things as strange, I dare to say,
        Happen somewhere every day.

The parish church, so old and gray,