O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
O where, O where can she be?
With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long,
O where, and O where is she?

Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun,
And farming is nought but a bilk.
When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank,
Why, why should they leave us our Milk?

Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1]
Might wish that a milkmaid were she;
Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days
Could troll forth her ballad with glee.

But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn,
And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright!
There is much to do and but little to earn
In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.

Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield,
And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall,
Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field,
Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?

Milking the Cow, and churning the milk
Made work for the maids long ago,
But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk,
_That's_ where our Dairymaids go.