« AnteriorContinuar »
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,I , THE NYMPH'S REPLY.
IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
These pretty pleasures might me move Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
To live with thee and be thy love. O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But time drives flocks from field to fold, But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; And Philomel becometh dumb, Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see, And all complain of cares to come. And come as ye were na' comin' to me. And come, &c.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields O whistle, &c.
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, * Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Yet look, &c.
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, O whistle, &c.
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be,
All these in me no means can move For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.
To come to thee, and be thy love. For fear, &c.
But could youth last, and love still breed, O whistle, &c.
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
GO, HAPPY ROSE.
Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love ! There we will sit upon the rocks,
Tell her, too, she must not be Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
Longer flowing, longer free, By shallow rivers, to whose falls
That so oft hath fettered me. Melodious birds sing madrigals.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands There will I make thee beds of roses
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; With a thousand fragrant posies;
Tell her, if she struggle still, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
I have myrtle rods at will, Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
For to tame, though not to kill. A gown made of the finest wool,
Take then my blessing thus, and go, Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
And tell her this, — but do not so ! Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
Lest a handsome anger fly, With buckles of the purest gold ;
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I.
THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
1. For thy delight each May morning,
EVERY wedding, says the proverb,
Makes another, soon or late;
So glossy your hair is,
Quite Grecian your nose is,
Not the beauty of tulips,
Most beautiful Kate!
Entered in the book of fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pair that wait.
11. Blessings then upon the morning
When my friend, with fondest look, By the solemn rites' permission,
To himself his mistress took, And the destinies recorded Other two within their book.
. 111. While the priest fulfilled his office,
Still the ground the lovers eyed, And the parents and the kinsmen
Aimed their glances at the bride ; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins Who were waiting at her side.
iv. Three there were that stood beside her;
One was dark, and one was fair ; But nor fair nor dark the other,
Save her Arab eyes and hair ; Neither dark nor fair I call her, Yet she was the fairest there.
V. While her groomsman — shall I own it ?
Yes to thee, and only thee Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden
Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought : “How blest the bridal
Where the bride were, such as she !”
Not the black eyes of Juno,
Can equal your own!
O, how my heart prances,
Upon me are thrown!
And now, dearest Kitty,
To keep me in sorrow!
So, if you ’ll but chime in,
And be married to-morrow.
Then I mused upon the adage,
Till my wisdom was perplexed, And I wondered, as the churchman
Dwelt upon his holy text,
For the flowers, the feast, the wine ?
Or, who knows? -- it may be mine, What if 't were — forgive the fancy — What if 't were — both mine and thine ?
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.
SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
On her cheek an autumn flush
Round her eyes her tresses fell, --
MY EYES! HOW I LOVE YOU.
My eyes ! how I love you,
Most beautiful Kitty.
And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Crying “Och hone! widow machree/"
Then take my advice, darling widow machree, —
Och hone! widow machree, 1.
And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me, Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black Then to stir up the fire ; gown, —
And sure hope is no liar
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart
When you'd me near your heart, —
Och horre! widow machree !
MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Och hone! widow machree,
| Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast, –
A wish, that she hardly dared to own, Widow machree, and when winter comes in, —
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow, across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup, And how do you know, with the comforts I've
| And blushed as she gave it, looking down towld, —
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
1 of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether , And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
“And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And she heard the little spring brook fall And all should bless me who left our door.” Over the roadside, through the wall,
CHARLES G. HALPINE
When the noonday woods are ringing,
All the birds of summer singing,
Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a
serpent nigh: THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet
So upon the door a rattle Flashed the soul of frolic riot,
Stopped our animated tattle, And a most malicious laughter lighted up her. And the stately mother found us prim enough te downcast eyes ;
suit her eye. All in vain I tried each topic,
Ranged from polar climes to tropic, Every commonplace I started met with yes-orno replies.
My little love, do you remember, For her mother - stiff and stately,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise, As if starched and ironed lately
Those evenings in the bleak December, Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in cury
Curtained warm from the snowy weather, ing palms;
When you and I played chess together, There she sat on guard before us,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah ! still I see your soft white hand several psalms.
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight;
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; How without abruptly ending
The double Castles guard the wings ; This my visit, and offending
The Bishop, bent on distant things, Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em. Moves, sidling, through the fight.
ployed my mental care ; When the butler, bowing lowly,
Our fingers touch; our glances meet, Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly,
And falter; falls your golden hair “Madam, please, the gardener wants you," —
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer.
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle's done : “Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to Disperst is all its chivalry. scan the daughter's face :
Full many a move since then have we Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes
Mid life's perplexing checkers made, From beneath those pencilled lashes!
And many a game with fortune played ; How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Na What is it we have won ? ture's brilliant grace.
This, this at least, – if this alone :
Brightly springs the prisoned fountain
From the side of Delphi's mountain
life is thrust aside;
Of the maiden's conversation
That never, never, nevermore,
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,)
Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather,
And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together.
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS.
Widely ranging, quickly changing,
Witty, winning, from beginning
Hand and eye, and eddying dimple,
well as heard.
“When your beauty appears,
In its graces and airs,
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,