Chapter VIII: Part 8

Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, I hang about her snowy neck, And cry, "Farewell, my dearest Molly!" Yet still I hang and still I kiss, Ye learned sages, say, is this In me the effect of love, or folly?

No - both by sober reason move, - She prudence shows, and I true love - No charge of folly can be laid. Then (till the marriage-rites proclaimed Shall join our hands) let us be named The constant swain, the virtuous maid.

Unknown

"WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME"

Come, all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbor of the great - 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye comes hame.

There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he! Then he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he'll woo his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.

See yonder pawkie shepherd That lingers on the hill - His ewes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye comes hame.

Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

THE LOW-BACKED CAR

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day, A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass And decked with flowers of Spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of death - in warlike cars: While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town, As right and left they fly; - While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far, - For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of Love! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-backed car.

O, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach-and-four, and goold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, - While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar, O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, - Though it beat in a low-backed car!

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN

The shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door.

"God save all here!" my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; "God save you kindly!" quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soil black eyes, Her fluttering curtsey takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.

Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone, And left the house in charge with her.

But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us, in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter, - it gilds all my rhyme!

And, while we ate the grateful food (With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind.

Kind wishes both our souls engaged, From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, - we stood and pledged The modest rose above Loch Dan.

"The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary, - bless those budding charms! - Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!"

She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have naught to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger-men.

Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.

Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, - 'Tis all in vain, - she can't but smile!

Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face, - I see it yet, - And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget

The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light; The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight,

The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, - The rosy cheek that won't be still: - O, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill?

For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again!

Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886]

MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG

Frowned the Laird on the Lord: "So, red-handed I catch thee? Death-doomed by our Law of the Border! We've a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee: Who trespasses - hangs: all's in order."

He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant: Then the Laird's dame: "Nay, Husband, I beg! He's comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant - If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!"

"No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry: Grant rather the gallows!" laughed he. "Foul fare kith and kin of you - why do you tarry?" "To tame your fierce temper!" quoth she.

"Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week: Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders: Who lion-like roars, now mouse-fashion will squeak, And 'it rains' soon succeed to 'it thunders.'"

A week did he bide in the cold and dark - Not hunger: for duly at morning In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lark Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still ye're scorning?

"Go hang, but here's parritch to hearten ye first!" "Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast within some Such music as yours, mine should match it or burst: No frog-jaws! So tell folk, my Winsome!"

Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's door set wide, Out he marched, and there waited the lassie: "Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for a bride! Consider! Sky's blue and turf's grassy:

"Life's sweet; shall I say ye wed Muckle-mouth Meg?" "Not I," quoth the stout heart: "too eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's egg: Shall I let it munch mine? Never, Dearie!"

"Not Muckle-mouth Meg? Wow, the obstinate man! Perhaps he would rather wed me!" "Ay, would he - with just for a dowry your can!" "I'm Muckle-mouth Meg," chirruped she.

"Then so - so - so - so -" as he kissed her apace - "Will I widen thee out till thou turnest From Margaret Minnikin-mou', by God's grace, To Muckle-mouth Meg in good earnest!"

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG

"Oh, what hae ye brought us hame now, my brave lord, Strappit flaught owre his braid saddle-bow? Some bauld Border reiver to feast at our board, An' harry our pantry, I trow. He's buirdly an' stalwart in lith an' in limb; Gin ye were his master in war The field was a saft eneugh litter for him, Ye needna hae brought him sae far. Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again, An' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher game."

"Hoot, whisht ye, my dame, for he comes o' gude kin, An' boasts o' a lang pedigree; This night he maun share o' our gude cheer within, At morning's gray dawn he maun dee. He's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud Harden Ha', Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep; But now he is snug in auld Elibank's paw, An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep. Though saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again, I'll ne'er when I hunt again strike higher game."

"Is this young Wat Scott? an' wad ye rax his craig, When our daughter is fey for a man? Gae, gaur the loun marry our muckle-mou'd Meg Or we'll ne'er get the jaud aff our han'!" "Od! hear our gudewife, she wad fain save your life; Wat Scott, will ye marry or hang?" But Meg's muckle mou set young Wat's heart agrue. Wat swore to the woodie he'd gang. Ne'er saddle nor munt again, harness nor dunt again, Wat ne'er shall hunt again, ne'er see his hame.

Syne muckle-mou'd Meg pressed in close to his side, An' blinkit fu' sleely and kind, But aye as Wat glowered at his braw proffered bride, He shook like a leaf in the wind. "A bride or a gallows, a rope or a wife!" The morning dawned sunny and clear - Wat boldly strode forward to part wi' his life, Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear; Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again, Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad be hame.

Meg's tear touched his bosom, the gibbet frowned high, An' slowly Wat strode to his doom; He gae a glance round wi' a tear in his eye, Meg shone like a star through the gloom. She rushed to his arms, they were wed on the spot, An' lo'ed ither muckle and lang; Nae bauld border laird had a wife like Wat Scott; 'Twas better to marry than hang. So saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again, Elibank hunt again, Wat's snug at hame.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

GLENLOGIE

Threescore o' nobles rade to the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a', Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, "Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!"

"O haud your tongue, dochter, ye'll get better than he"; "O say na sae, mither, for that canna be; Though Doumlie is richer, and greater than he. Yet if I maun tak' him, I'll certainly dee.

"Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon?" "O here am I, a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, Will gae to Glenlogie and come again soon."

When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash and go dine"; 'Twas "Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine." "O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine.

"But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee." The first line that he read, a low smile ga'e he; The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e: But the last line he read, he gart the table flee.

"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town"; But lang ere the horse was brought round to the green, O bonnie Glenlogie was two mile his lane.

When he cam' to Glenfeldy's door, sma' mirth was there; Bonnie Jean's mither was tearing her hair; "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she, "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see."

Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie gaed ben, But red rosy grew she whene'er he sat down; She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee."

Unknown

LOCHINVAR From "Marmion"

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; - Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, - And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, era her mother could bar, - "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen" - But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen" - But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost o' them a' Shall ride our forest-queen" - But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide, The tapers glimmered fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there: They sought her baith by bower and ha'; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

CANDOR October - A Wood

I know what you're going to say," she said, And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall: "You are going to speak of the hectic fall, And say you're sorry the summer's dead, And no other summer was like it, you know, And can I imagine what made it so. Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said: "You are going to ask if I forget That day in June when the woods were wet, And you carried me" - here she drooped her head - "Over the creek; you are going to say, Do I remember that horrid day. Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said: "You are going to say that since that time You have rather tended to run to rhyme, And" - her clear glance fell, and her cheek grew red - "And have I noticed your tone was queer. Why, everybody has seen it here! Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," I said: "You're going to say you've been much annoyed; And I'm short of tact - you will say, devoid - And I'm clumsy and awkward; and call me Ted; And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb; And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am. Now aren't you, honestly?" "Ye-es," she said.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

"DO YOU REMEMBER"

Do you remember when you heard My lips breathe love's first faltering word? You do, sweet - don't you? When, having wandered all the day, Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, "You'll love me - won't you?"

And when you blushed and could not speak, I fondly kissed your glowing cheek, Did that affront you? Oh, surely not - your eye expressed No wrath - but said, perhaps in jest, "You'll love me - won't you?"

I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will." And you believe that promise still, You do, sweet - don't you? Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes Unfit for questions or replies, You'll love me - won't you?

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

BECAUSE

Sweet Nea! - for your lovely sake I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake, And can't compose my slumbers; Because your beauty's gentle light Is round my pillow beaming, And flings, I know not why, to-night, Some witchery o'er my dreaming!

Because we've passed some joyous days, And danced some merry dances; Because we love old Beaumont's plays, And old Froissart's romances! Because whene'er I hear your words Some pleasant feeling lingers; Because I think your heart has cords That vibrate to your fingers.

Because you've got those long, soft curls, I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls, All bustle blush, and bodice! Because your eyes are deep and blue, Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little child and you Would make one's home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money; Because I think you'd rather twirl A waltz, with me to guide you, Than talk small nonsense with an earl, And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk, And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learned to talk Of flowers, and Poonah-painting; Because I think you'd scarce refuse To sew one on a button; Because I know you sometimes choose To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak As, some of those fine morrows, To ask you if you'll let me speak My story - and my sorrows; Because the rest's a simple thing, A matter quickly over A church - a priest - a sigh - a ring - And a chaise-and-four to Dover.

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

LOVE AND AGE From "Gryll Grange"

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly - How dearly, words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The center of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth, your hand bestow; O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, - But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression; - But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened: - But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure, - And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

TO HELEN

If wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen's table; - "What then?" she asks me with a laugh - Why, then, with all heaven's luster glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

AT THE CHURCH GATE From "Pendennis"

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes - she's here - she's past! May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

MABEL, IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

Fairest of the fairest, rival of the rose, That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows.

Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows? That's an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows.

Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes? Just the age of beauty, as everybody knows.

Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes? She is just the perfect height, as everybody knows.

What's the color of her eyes, when they ope or close? Just the color they should be, as everybody knows.

Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose? Both are radiant pictures, as everybody knows.

Do her ships go sailing on every wind that blows? She is richer far than that, as everybody knows.

Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux? That question's quite superfluous, as everybody knows.

I could tell you something, if I only chose! - But what's the use of telling what everybody knows?

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

TOUJOURS AMOUR

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

THE DOORSTEP

The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past, Like snow-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes bitten, Than I, that stepped before them all Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no! she blushed and took my arm: We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lovers' by-way.

I can't remember what we said, - 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff (O sculptor! if you could but mold it) So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone, - 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended; At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home: Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said - "Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, - But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, - I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still, O listless woman! weary lover! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give - but who can live youth over?

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

THE WHITE FLAG

I sent my love two roses, - one As white as driven snow, And one a blushing royal red, A flaming Jacqueminot.

I meant to touch and test my fate; That night I should divine, The moment I should see my love, If her true heart were mine.

For if she holds me dear, I said, She'll wear my blushing rose; If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque, As white as winter's snows.

My heart sank when I met her: sure I had been overbold, For on her breast my pale rose lay In virgin whiteness cold.

Yet with low words she greeted me, With smiles divinely tender; Upon her cheek the red rose dawned, - The white rose meant surrender.

John Hay [1838-1905]

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS

When Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, - Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, - And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong, And gay birds gossip The orchard long, - Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips; Sing red, red roses, - And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain, - Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers, - And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter With hail and storm, And red fire roaring And ingle warm, - Sing first sad going Of friends that part; Then sing glad meeting, - And my Love's heart.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE LOVE-KNOT

Tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied her raven ringlets in; But not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind came blowing merry and chill; And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-colored face. Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, Under her beautiful, dimpled chin.

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, Tied a young man's heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill, Madder, merrier, chillier still The western wind blew down, and played The wildest tricks with the little maid, As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

O western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair? To gladly, gleefully, do your best To blow her against the young man's breast, Where he as gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?

Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought, An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What terrible danger you'd be in, As she tied her bonnet under her chin!

Nora Perry [1832-1896]

RIDING DOWN

Oh, did you see him riding down, And riding down, while all the town Came out to see, came out to see, And all the bells rang mad with glee?

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, The bells ring out, the people shout, And did you hear that cheer on cheer That over all the bells rang clear?

And did you see the waving flags, The fluttering flags, the tattered flags, Red, white, and blue, shot through and through; Baptized with battle's deadly dew?

And did you hear the drums' gay beat, The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet, The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash, That rent the sky with sound and flash?

And did you see me waiting there, Just waiting there, and watching there. One little lass, amid the mass That pressed to see the hero pass?

And did you see him smiling down, And smiling down, as riding down With slowest pace, with stately grace, He caught the vision of a face, -

My face uplifted red and white, Turned red and white with sheer delight, To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, Outflashing in their swift surprise?

Oh, did you see how swift it came, How swift it came like sudden flame, That smile to me, to only me. The little lass who blushed to see?

And at the windows all along, Oh, all along, a lovely throng Of faces fair, beyond compare, Beamed out upon him riding there!

Each face was like a radiant gem, A sparkling gem, and yet for them No swift smile came like sudden flame, No arrowy glance took certain aim.

He turned away from all their grace, From all that grace of perfect face, He turned to me, to only me, The little lass who blushed to see!

Nora Perry [1832-1896]

"FORGETTIN"

The night when last I saw my lad His eyes were bright an' wet. He took my two hands in his own, "'Tis well," says he, "we're met. Asthore machree! the likes o' me I bid ye now forget."

Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing, 'Tis more I'd do for him! I mind the night I promised well, Away on Ballindim. - An' every little while or so I thry forgettin' Jim.

It shouldn't take that long to do, An' him not very tall: 'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice, A boy that's out o' call, - An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain As e'er a six-fut wall.

Och, never fear, my jewel! I'd forget ye now this minute, If I only had a notion O' the way I should begin it; But first an' last it isn't known The heap o' throuble's in it.

Meself began the night ye went An' hasn't done it yet; I'm nearly fit to give it up, For where's the use to fret? - An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me Wid mindin' to forget.

Moira O'Neill [18

"ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE"

How often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside, Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne.

It must have been a merry mile, This summer stroll by hedge and stile, With sweet foreknowledge all the while How sure the pathway ran To dear delights of kiss and smile, Across the fields to Anne.

The silly sheep that graze to-day, I wot, they let him go his way, Nor once looked up, as who would say: "It is a seemly man." For many lads went wooing aye Across the fields to Anne.

The oaks, they have a wiser look; Mayhap they whispered to the brook: "The world by him shall yet be shook, It is in nature's plan; Though now he fleets like any rook Across the fields to Anne."

And I am sure, that on some hour Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower, He stooped and broke a daisy-flower With heart of tiny span, And bore it as a lover's dower Across the fields to Anne.

While from her cottage garden-bed She plucked a jasmin's goodlihede, To scent his jerkin's brown instead; Now since that love began, What luckier swain than he who sped Across the fields to Anne?

The winding path whereon I pace, The hedgerows green, the summer's grace, Are still before me face to face; Methinks I almost can Turn port and join the singing race Across the fields to Anne.

Richard Burton [1861-

PAMELA IN TOWN

The fair Pamela came to town, To London town, in early summer; And up and down and round about The beaux discussed the bright newcomer, With "Gadzooks, sir," and "Ma'am, my duty," And "Odds my life, but 'tis a Beauty!"

To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam, Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry, With cheeks of cream and roses blent, With voice of lark and lip of cherry. Then all the beaux vowed 'twas their duty To win and wear this country Beauty.

And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit, With whispers bold and eyes still bolder; The warmer grew his saucy flame, Cold grew the charming fair and colder. 'Twas "icy bosom" - "cruel beauty" - "To love, sweet Mistress, 'tis a duty."

Then Jack Carew his arts essayed, With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping. Good lack! his billets bound the curls That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping. Next day these curls had richer beauty, So well Jack's fervor did its duty.

Then Cousin Will came up to view The way Pamela ruled the fashion; He watched the gallants crowd about, And flew into a rustic passion, - Left "Squire, his mark," on divers faces, And pinked Carew beneath his laces.

Alack! one night at Ranelagh The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing; And all the mettled bloods looked round To see what caused that telltale flushing. Up stepped a grizzled Poet Fellow To dance with Pam a saltarello.

Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved, With hand on sword and cutting glances, That they would lead that Graybeard forth To livelier tunes and other dances. But who that saw Pam's eyes a-shining With love and joy would see her pining!

And - oons! Their wrath cooled as they looked, - That Poet stared as fierce as any! He was a mighty proper man, With blade on hip and inches many; The beaux all vowed it was their duty To toast some newer, softer Beauty.

Sweet Pam she bridled, blushed and smiled - The wild thing loved and could but show it! Mayhap some day you'll see in town Pamela and her grizzled Poet. Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty, And won her faith, her love, her beauty.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

YES?

Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it - The word spoken yesterday night? Does that hour seem so sweet now between it And this has come day's sober light? Have you woke from a moment of rapture To remember, regret, and repent, And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your Unthinking consent?

Who was he, last evening - this fellow Whose audacity lent him a charm? Have you promised to wed Pulchinello? For life taking Figaro's arm? Will you have the Court fool of the papers, The clown in the journalists' ring, Who earns his scant bread by his capers, To be your heart's king?

When we met quite by chance at the theatre And I saw you home under the moon, I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her Tricks with my tongue quite so soon; That I should forget fate and fortune Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf - That I'd have the calm nerve to importune You, sweet, for yourself.

It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious Effrontery of that request! But you - you grew suddenly gracious, And hid your sweet face on my breast. Why you did it I cannot conjecture; I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, Or perhaps - does the moonlight affect your Head often that way?

. . . . . . . . . . .

You're released! With some wooer replace me More worthy to be your life's light; From the tablet of memory efface me, If you don't mean your Yes of last night. But - unless you are anxious to see me a Wreck of the pipe and the cup In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia - Love, don't give me up!

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

THE PRIME OF LIFE

Just as I thought I was growing old, Ready to sit in my easy chair, To watch the world with a heart grown cold, And smile at a folly I would not share,

Rose came by with a smile for me, And I am thinking that forty year Isn't the age that it seems to be, When two pretty brown eyes are near.

Bless me! of life it is just the prime, A fact that I hope she will understand; And forty year is a perfect rhyme To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.

These gray hairs are by chance, you see - Boys are sometimes gray, I am told: Rose came by with a smile for me, Just as I thought I was getting old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS

"Love your neighbor as yourself," - So the parson preaches: That's one half the Decalogue, - So the prayer-book teaches. Half my duty I can do With but little labor, For with all my heart and soul I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that, To my self-denial, Not to love her, though, might be Something of a trial. Why, the rosy light, that peeps Through the glass above her, Lingers round her lips, - you see E'en the sunbeams love her.

So to make my merit more, I'll go beyond the letter: - Love my neighbor as myself? Yes, and ten times better. For she's sweeter than the breath Of the Spring, that passes Through the fragrant, budding woods, O'er the meadow-grasses.

And I've preached the word I know, For it was my duty To convert the stubborn heart Of the little beauty. Once again success has crowned Missionary labor, For her sweet eyes own that she Also loves her neighbor.

George Augustus Baker [1849-1906]

THE IRONY OF LOVE

"SIGH NO MORE, LADIES" From "Much Ado About Nothing"

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

A RENUNCIATION

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

Edward Vere [1550-1604]

A SONG

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From Love's imperial chain, Take warning, and be taught by me, To avoid the enchanting pain; Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove, To careless seamen, hidden rocks, To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize; The snake's beneath the flower: Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, That tasted quiet more? How faithless is the lovers' joy! How constant is their care The kind with falsehood to destroy, The cruel, with despair.

George Etherege [1635?-1691]

TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwell: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]

TO AN INCONSTANT

I loved thee once; I'll love no more, - Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That it thou might elsewhere enthrall: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, - Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.

Robert Ayton [1570-1638]

ADVICE TO A GIRL

Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man! Men sometimes will jealous be, Though but little cause they see, And hang the head, as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent.

Men, that but one Saint adore, Make a show of love to more; Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk: - If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear!

Thomas Campion [? -1619]

SONG That Women Are But Men's Shadows From "The Forest"

Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even, shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

Ben Johnson [1573?-1637]

TRUE BEAUTY

May I find a woman fair And her mind as clear as air! If her beauty go alone, 'Tis to me as if 'twere none.

May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch! If that pride should cause disdain, Tell me, Lover, where's thy gain?

May I find a woman wise, And her falsehood not disguise! Hath she wit as she hath will, Double-armed she is to ill.

May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind! How should I call that love mine When 'tis his, and his, and thine?

May I find a woman true! There is beauty's fairest hue: There is beauty, love, and wit. Happy he can compass it!

Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]

THE INDIFFERENT

Never more will I protest To love a woman but in jest: For as they cannot be true, So to give each man his due, When the wooing fit is past, Their affection cannot last.

Therefore if I chance to meet With a mistress fair and sweet, She my service shall obtain, Loving her for love again: Thus much liberty I crave Not to be a constant slave.

But when we have tried each other, If she better like another, Let her quickly change for me; Then to change am I as free. He or she that loves too long Sell their freedom for a song.

Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]

THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?

George Wither [1588-1667]

HIS FURTHER RESOLUTION

Shall I (like a hermit) dwell On a rock or in a cell; Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be!

Were her tresses angel-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, and unafraid, To convert them to a braid; And, with little more ado, Work them into bracelets, too! If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be!

Were her hands as rich a prize As her hair or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners' sake! And let every lover slip From her hand unto her lip! If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be!

No! She must be perfect snow In effect as well as show! Warming but as snowballs do; Not like fire by burning, too! But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot; Then if others share with me, Farewell her! whate'er she be!

Unknown

SONG From "Britannia's Pastorals"

Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then awhile to me; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she or none, That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart: So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth, Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhat young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

TO DIANEME

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED