Imagens da página
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

BARRY CORNWALL.

MY SWEET SWEETING.

FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII.

Aн, my sweet sweeting;
My little pretty sweeting,

My sweeting will I love wherever I go;
She is so proper and pure,

Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,

There is none such, you may be sure,
As my sweet sweeting.

THE FLOWER'S NAME.

HERE'S the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie!

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, —
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name ! was it love or praise?

Speech half asleep, or song half awake?
I must learn Spanish one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase.
But do not detain me now, for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground;
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not,
Stay as you are, and be loved forever.
Bud, if I kiss you, 't is that you blow not,

Mind the shut pink mouth opens never

For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee.
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud! show me the least of her traces.
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall:
Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces,
Roses, you are not so fair after all!

ROBERT BROWNING.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind ;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this hath done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

EDMUND WALLER.

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dumblane.

[blocks in formation]

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

Ir is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear;
For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

O, SAW YE THE LASS?

O, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een?
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen;
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween,
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green.
The home of my love is below in the valley,
Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee;
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen
Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een.

When night overshadows her cot in the glen,
She 'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again;
And when the moon shines on the valley so green,
I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een.
As the dove that has wandered away from his nest
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best,
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene,
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een,

RICHARD RYAN.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

ON Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass,
A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
I'd crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton through the grove,
O, whisper to my charming fair,
I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own! O, may her choice be fixed on me! Mine's fixed on her alone.

UPTON.

By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace; An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rockén as the win' da blow, While she da sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night.

An' dere at evemen I da goo,

A-hoppén auver ghiates an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we da slyly catch A chat, an hour upon the stratch, An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch, In the stillness o' the night.

An' zometimes she da goo to zome

Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace,
An' I da get a clue to triace
Her out, an' goo to zee her huom,

An' I da wish a vield a mile,
As she da sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

WILLIAM BARNES.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be !

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.

DORSET DIALECT.

Ov all the housen o' the pliace

Ther 's oone wher I da like to call,

O MISTRESS MINE.

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, —

Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SHAKESPEARE

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy,

'T was 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 owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car.

[blocks in formation]

O, I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold 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.

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;
For she 's 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
The Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm drest 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 blaméd
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 and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

O, would it were ten thousand pound!

I'd give it all to Sally;

For she 's the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

[blocks in formation]

Be what it may the time of day, the place be O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall;

where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

[blocks in formation]

so fine,

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be

[blocks in formation]

O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been!

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

all before ;

[blocks in formation]

sae green:

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in

[blocks in formation]

The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:

feet;

The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung;

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue.

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

0, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I 'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna

take away:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star

is near,

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear;

The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to

wear:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

« AnteriorContinuar »