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,
        Is quite a sight to see;
    And he was there at ten one day,
        And so, it chanced, was she.
    And while they stood, with cheeks aflame,
        And neighbours liked the fun,
    In stole and hood the parson came,
        And made the couple one.
            Things as strange, I dare to say,
            Happen somewhere every day.

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