Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies,— Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease;— And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, And shot from a silver string.

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]



SONG OF THE MILKMAID From "Queen Mary"

Shame upon you, Robin, Shame upon you now! Kiss me would you? with my hands Milking the cow? Daisies grow again, Kingcups blow again, And you came and kissed me milking the cow.

Robin came behind me, Kissed me well, I vow; Cuff him could I? with my hands Milking the cow? Swallows fly again, Cuckoos cry again, And you came and kissed me milking the cow.

Come, Robin, Robin, Come and kiss me now; Help it can I? with my hands Milking the cow? Ringdoves coo again, All things woo again, Come behind and kiss me milking the cow!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



"WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW"

I know a girl with teeth of pearl, And shoulders white as snow; She lives,—ah well, I must not tell,— Wouldn't you like to know?

Her sunny hair is wondrous fair, And wavy in its flow; Who made it less One little tress,— Wouldn't you like to know?

Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!) And dazzling in their glow; On whom they beam With melting gleam,— Wouldn't you like to know?

Her lips are red and finely wed, Like roses ere they blow; What lover sips Those dewy lips,— Wouldn't you like to know?

Her fingers are like lilies fair When lilies fairest grow; Whose hand they press With fond caress,— Wouldn't you like to know?

Her foot is small, and has a fall Like snowflakes on the snow; And where it goes Beneath the rose,— Wouldn't you like to know?

She has a name, the sweetest name That language can bestow. 'Twould break the spell If I should tell,— Wouldn't you like to know?

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



"SING HEIGH-HO!"

There sits a bird on every tree; Sing heigh-ho! There sits a bird on every tree, And courts his love as I do thee; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! Young maids must marry.

There grows a flower on every bough; Sing heigh-ho! There grows a flower on every bough, Its petals kiss—I'll show you how: Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! Young maids must marry.

From sea to stream the salmon roam; Sing heigh-ho! From sea to stream the salmon roam; Each finds a mate and leads her home; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! Young maids must marry.

The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride; Sing heigh-ho! They court from morn till eventide: The earth shall pass, but love abide. Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! Young maids must marry.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



THE GOLDEN FISH

Love is a little golden fish, Wondrous shy... ah, wondrous shy... You may catch him if you wish; He might make a dainty dish... But I... Ah, I've other fish to fry!

For when I try to snare this prize, Earnestly and patiently, All my skill the rogue defies, Lurking safe in Aimee's eyes... So, you see, I am caught and Love goes free!

George Arnold [1834-1865]



THE COURTIN'

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in— There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A I, Clear grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pitty-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal... no... I come dasignin" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call ag'in"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'... Wal, he up an' kissed her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



L'EAU DORMANTE

Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book. In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.

My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser; If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen— For Lydia will be seventeen.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



A PRIMROSE DAME

She has a primrose at her breast, I almost wish I were a Tory. I like the Radicals the best; She has a primrose at her breast; Now is it chance she so is dressed, Or must I tell a story? She has a primrose at her breast, I almost wish I were a Tory.

Gleeson White [1851-1898]



IF

Oh, if the world were mine, Love, I'd give the world for thee! Alas! there is no sign, Love, Of that contingency.

Were I a king,—which isn't To be considered now,— A diadem had glistened Upon that lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me,— She hasn't, up to date,— Nor time nor change had found me To love and thee ingrate.

If Death threw down his gage, Love, Though life is dear to me, I'd die, e'en of old age, Love, To win a smile from thee.

But being poor, we part, dear, And love, sweet love, must die; Thou wilt not break thy heart, dear, No more, I think, shall I!

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]



DON'T

Your eyes were made for laughter: Sorrow befits them not; Would you be blithe hereafter, Avoid the lover's lot.

The rose and lily blended Possess your cheeks so fair; Care never was intended To leave his furrows there.

Your heart was not created To fret itself away, By being unduly mated To common human clay.

But hearts were made for loving— Confound philosophy! Forget what I've been proving, Sweet Phyllis, and love me!

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]



AN IRISH LOVE-SONG

In the years about twenty (When kisses are plenty) The love of an Irish lass fell to my fate— So winsome and sightly, So saucy and sprightly, The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate.

Soft gray of the dawning, Bright blue of the morning, The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate; A nose like a fairy's, A cheek like a cherry's, And a smile—well, her smile was like—nothing but Kate.

To see her was passion, To love her, the fashion; What wonder my heart was unwilling to wait! And, daring to love her, I soon did discover A Katherine masking in mischievous Kate.

No Katy unruly But Katherine, truly— Fond, serious, patient, and even sedate; With a glow in her gladness That banishes sadness— Yet stay! Should I credit the sunshine to Kate?

Love cannot outlive it, Wealth cannot o'ergive it— The saucy surrender she made at the gate. O Time, be but human, Spare the girl in the woman! You gave me my Katherine—leave me my Kate!

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-



GROWING OLD

Sweet sixteen is shy and cold, Calls me "sir," and thinks me old; Hears in an embarrassed way All the compliments I pay;

Finds my homage quite a bore, Will not smile on me, and more To her taste she finds the noise And the chat of callow boys.

Not the lines around my eye, Deepening as the years go by; Not white hairs that strew my head, Nor my less elastic tread;

Cares I find, nor joys I miss, Make me feel my years like this:— Sweet sixteen is shy and cold, Calls me "sir," and thinks me old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



TIME'S REVENGE

When I was ten and she fifteen— Ah, me! how fair I thought her. She treated with disdainful mien The homage that I brought her, And, in a patronizing way, Would of my shy advances say: "It's really quite absurd, you see; He's very much too young for me."

I'm twenty now, she twenty-five— Well, well! how old she's growing. I fancy that my suit might thrive If pressed again; but, owing To great discrepancy in age, Her marked attentions don't engage My young affections, for, you see, She's really quite too old for me.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



IN EXPLANATION

Her lips were so near That—what else could I do? You'll be angry, I fear. But her lips were so near— Well, I can't make it clear, Or explain it to you. But—her lips were so near That—what else could I do?

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



OMNIA VINCIT

Long from the lists of love I stood aloof My heart was steeled and I was beauty-proof; Yet I, unscathed in many a peril past, Lo! here am I defeated at the last.

My practice was, in easy-chair reclined, Superior-wise to speak of womankind, Waving away the worn-out creed of love To join the smoke that wreathed itself above.

Love, I said in my wisdom, Love is dead, For all his fabled triumphs—and instead We find a calm affectionate respect, Doled forth by Intellect to Intellect.

Yet when Love, taking vengeance, smote me sore, My Siren called me from no classic shore; It was no Girton trumpet that laid low The walls of this Platonic Jericho.

For when my peace of mind at length was stole, I thought no whit of Intellect or Soul, Nay! I was cast in pitiful distress By brown eyes wide with truth and tenderness.

Alfred Cochrane [1865-



A PASTORAL

Along the lane beside the mead Where cowslip-gold is in the grass I matched the milkmaid's easy speed, A tall and springing country lass: But though she had a merry plan To shield her from my soft replies, Love played at Catch-me-if-you-Can In Mary's eyes.

A mile or twain from Varley bridge I plucked a dock-leaf for a fan, And drove away the constant midge, And cooled her forehead's strip of tan. But though the maiden would not spare My hand her pretty finger-tips, Love played at Kiss-me-if-you-Dare On Mary's lips.

Since time was short and blood was bold, I drew me closer to her side, And watched her freckles change from gold To pink beneath a blushing tide. But though she turned her face away, How much her panting heart confessed! Love played at Find-me-for-you-May In Mary's breast.

Norman Gale [1862-



A ROSE

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting; Sweetest flower that blows, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose. In the love garden close, With the swift blushes starting, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows— Since I will not discover, And love is that close, If she kissed it, who knows? Or if not the red rose Perhaps then the lover! If she kissed it, who knows, Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing! More I will not disclose, Yet at least with the rose Went whose kiss no one knows,— Since I'm only declaring, "Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing."

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]



"WOOED AND MARRIED AND A'"

The bride cam' out o' the byre, And oh, as she dighted her cheeks: "Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And ha'e neither blankets nor sheets; Ha'e neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado!" Wooed and married, and a', Married and wooed and a'! And was she nae very weel aff, That was wooed and married and a'?

Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: "Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn— What wad ye be at, ye jaud?"

Out spake the bride's mither: "What deil needs a' this pride? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins, Mair than ane or twa."

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: "Poor Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy And no for a puir man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak' ane i' my life."

Out spake the bride's sister, As she cam' in frae the byre: "O gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire; But we puir folk maun live single, And do the best we can; I dinna ken what I should want, If I could get but a man!"

Alexander Ross [1699-1784]



"OWRE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER"

Comin' though the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Owre the muir amang the heather, Owre the muir amang the heather; There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Says I, My dear, where is thy hame,— In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? She says, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather.

We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather: She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather.

While thus we lay, she sung a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther; And aye the burden of the sang Was, Owre the muir amang the heather.

She charmed my heart, and aye sinsyne I couldna think on ony ither: By sea and sky! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather.

Jean Glover [1758-1801]



MARRIAGE AND THE CARE O'T

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I've wooed ye mair than ha' a year, An' if ye'd wed me ne'er cou'd speer, Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I'm wi't: Will ye be my ha'f-marrow, sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be't An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die For me, I'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel for ever!—aff I hie;— Sae took his leave without a sigh; Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, I'll try The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' ga'e her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthened out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blithe was she wi' Rab to cleek, In marriage, wi' the care o't.

Robert Lochore [1762-1852]



THE WOMEN FOLK

O sairly may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They ha'e plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things! I lo'e them still. O, the women folk! O, the women folk, But they ha'e been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!

I ha'e thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo'ed them better than mysel', I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. That they ha'e gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree! An' smiles as saft as the young rose-bud, An' e'en sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the clud— But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!

James Hogg [1770-1835]



"LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS"

I lately lived in quiet ease, An' never wished to marry, O! But when I saw my Peggy's face, I felt a sad quandary, O! Though wild as ony Athol deer, She has trepanned me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear Torment me late an' early, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness!

To tell my feats this single week Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart out owre a dike, My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue, My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should pleugh, An' pleugh the drills entirely, O!

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rase to theek the stable, O! I cuist my coat, an' plied away As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an' looked about, Gudefaith, it was the byre, O!

Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O!

James Hogg [1770-1835]



"BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK"

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it— So mind you that—before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae—I dinna care— But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kissed, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten—before folk.

Alexander Rodger [1784-1846]



RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear; So, jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough, Sure I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips;—don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir: you'll hug me no more; That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]



ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are deceivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go— If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say, 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel? Sweet Mary," says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!" "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see; Since my parents are both so contrary— You'd better ask me!"

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]



KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.

"Oh! what shall I do now—'twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy! Oh! Barney MacCleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season—I can't tell the reason— Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Charles Dawson Shanly [1811-1875]



THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies— And the sweetest I maintain, Was Caddie, That I took un'neath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain.

She said the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain; "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This self-same winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane) Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?"

Charles Sibley [? ]



KITTY NEIL

"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning; Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree, Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,— Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean: Cheeks bright as the rose—feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing— Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

John Francis Waller [1810-1894]



"THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE"

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine; My ribbins'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t'other day,— Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well,— An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May;— Bi th' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en; My cheek went as red as a rose;— There's never a mortal can tell Heaw happy aw felt; for, thea knows, One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,— To let it eawt wouldn't be reet,— For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet; But Mally, thae knows very weel,— Though it isn't a thing one should own,— Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind; What would to do iv't wur thee? "Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he'd be; For Jamie's as gradely a lad As ever stepped eawt into th' sun;— Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon,— Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late; Aw'm a' ov a tremble to th' heel,— Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do?— "Be off, lass,—thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

Edwin Waugh [1817-1890]



THE OULD PLAID SHAWL

Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall, A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; And oh! her face; and oh! her grace, the soul of saint would charm: Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her—"God save you, miss," says I; "God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me by; Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight; But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, "The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl."

I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall, Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small— You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere, For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-



LITTLE MARY CASSIDY

Oh, 'tis little Mary Cassidy's the cause of all my misery, And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be; Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me. Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and town— Fairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain; Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain.

'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a sight of her, And heard her sing the "Droighnean Donn," till tears came in my eyes, And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her; The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise. Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind; Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy, 'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find.

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye? Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon go to the right-about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by. Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, Ship them all across the say, or to the frozen zone: Lave me an orphan bare—but lave me Mary Cassidy, I never would feel lonesome with the two of us alone.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-



THE ROAD

"Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all? Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen? Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it, You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it, Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it—" "Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean!"

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul? An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows, An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, 'Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye—" "What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin', ses I, "wid the shawl, An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all? The road by the mountain's a long one, depend Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end; Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it, Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it,— Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it—" "Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"

That's stepped wid a friend? Who did Bridgy intend? Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18



TWICKENHAM FERRY

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's who's for the ferry?" (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the ferry," (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And it's late as it is and I haven't a penny— Oh! how can I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry— It's sure but you're welcome to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho!"—You're too late for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady; It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. "Ahoy! and O-ho!" you may call as you will; The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill; And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town.

Theophile Marzials [1850-



THE HUMOR OF LOVE



SONG

I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie, To find it were in vain, For thou hast a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love, where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe! I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.

John Suckling [1609-1642]



A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger, though, than thine) Walked on before the rest; Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The king (God bless him!) 'twould undo him Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave (for all his haste), He did not so much wish all past, (Perchance) as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she, Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must) It looked like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison; Who sees them is undone; For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

Passion o' me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride: The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained-band, Presented and away.

When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be intreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's come thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, (And who could help it, Dick?)

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance; Then dance again, and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wished her place, And ev'ry man wished his.

By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

John Suckling [1609-1642]



TO CHLOE JEALOUS

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled: Prithee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says), Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know, Child) the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way: They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war; And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



JACK AND JOAN

Jack and Joan they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-days' work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out, at a country feast, Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy. All their pleasure is content; And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows, And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tuttyes make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break; And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the home-spun gray, And revel in your rich array: Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain.

Thomas Campion [?—1619]



PHILLIS AND CORYDON

Phillis kept sheep along the western plains, And Corydon did feed his flocks hard by: This shepherd was the flower of all the swains That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly; And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.

A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire, Was lovely Phillis,—Corydon swore so; Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire, He left his lambs, and he began to woo; He looked, he sighed, he courted with a kiss, No better could the silly swad than this.

He little knew to paint a tale of love, Shepherds can fancy, but they cannot say: Phillis 'gan smile, and wily thought to prove What uncouth grief poor Corydon did pay; She asked him how his flocks or he did fare, Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care.

The shepherd blushed when Phillis questioned so, And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks: "'Tis love, fair Phillis, breedeth all this woe, My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks; Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire; Fair Phillis kindleth Corydon's desire."

"Can shepherds love?" said Phillis to the swain. "Such saints as Phillis," Corydon replied. "Men when they lust can many fancies feign," Said Phillis. This not Corydon denied, That lust had lies; "But love," quoth he, "says truth: Thy shepherd loves, then, Phillis, what ensu'th?"

Phillis was won, she blushed and hung her head; The swain stepped to, and cheered her with a kiss: With faith, with troth, they struck the matter dead; So used they when men thought not amiss: Thus love begun and ended both in one; Phillis was loved, and she liked Corydon.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day— And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'll marry Sally; O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed— But not in our alley!

Henry Carey [?—1743]



THE COUNTRY WEDDING

Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain; Why so much in haste?—now the month it was May— May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way? Then straight to this question the nymph did reply, With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye, I came from the village, and homeward I go, And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know?

I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss, If I tell you my reason for asking you this; I would see you safe home—(now the swain was in love!) Of such a companion if you would approve. Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own; But I see no great danger in going alone; Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free For one as another, for you as for me.

No danger in going alone, it is true, But yet a companion is pleasanter, too; And if you could like—(now the swain he took heart)— Such a sweetheart as me, why we never would part. O that's a long word, said the shepherdess then, I've often heard say there's no minding you men. You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true! Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do.

O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied, To prove what I say, I will make you my bride. To-morrow the parson—(well-said, little swain!)— Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain. Then what the nymph answered to this isn't said, The very next morn, to be sure, they were wed. Sing hey-diddle,—ho-diddle,—hey-diddle-down,— Now when shall we see such a wedding in town?

Unknown



"O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE"

O merry may the maid be That marries wi' the miller, For, foul day and fair day, He's aye bringing till her,— Has aye a penny in his purse For dinner or for supper; And, gin she please, a good fat cheese And lumps of yellow butter.

When Jamie first did woo me, I speired what was his calling; "Fair maid," says he, "O come and see, Ye're welcome to my dwalling." Though I was shy, yet could I spy The truth o' what he told me, And that his house was warm and couth, And room in it to hold me.

Behind the door a bag o' meal, And in the kist was plenty O' guid hard cakes his mither bakes, And bannocks werena scanty. A guid fat sow, a sleeky cow Was standing in the byre, Whilst lazy puss with mealy mouse Was playing at the fire.

"Guid signs are these," my mither says, And bids me tak' the miller; For, fair day and foul day, He's aye bringing till her; For meal and maut she doesna want, Nor anything that's dainty; And now and then a kecking hen, To lay her eggs in plenty.

In winter, when the wind and rain Blaws o'er the house and byre, He sits beside a clean hearth-stane, Before a rousing fire. With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, Which rows him o'er fu' nappy:— Wha'd be a king—a petty thing, When a miller lives so happy?

John Clerk [1684-1755]



THE LASS O' GOWRIE

'Twas on a simmer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed doun, A lassie wi' a braw new goun Cam' owre the hills to Gowrie. The rosebud washed in simmer's shower Bloomed fresh within the sunny bower; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie.

To see her cousin she cam' there; And oh! the scene was passing fair, For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into gray, The mavis and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.

O lang the lassie I had wooed, And truth and constancy had vowed, But could nae speed wi' her I lo'ed Until she saw fair Gowrie. I pointed to my faither's ha'— Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae loun that there nae blast could blaw:— Wad she no bide in Gowrie?

Her faither was baith glad and wae; Her mither she wad naething say; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet; The blush and tear were on her cheek; She naething said, and hung her head;— But now she's Leddy Gowrie.

Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]



THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID

Soon as the day begins to waste, Straight to the well-known door I haste, And rapping there, I'm forced to stay While Molly hides her work with care, Adjusts her tucker and her hair, And nimble Becky scours away.

Entering, I see in Molly's eyes A sudden smiling joy arise, As quickly checked by virgin shame: She drops a curtsey, steals a glance, Receives a kiss, one step advance.— If such I love, am I to blame?

I sit, and talk of twenty things, Of South Sea stock, or death of kings, While only "Yes" or "No," says Molly; As cautious she conceals her thoughts, As others do their private faults:— Is this her prudence, or her folly?

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!