Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now,Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:But Imusthave the next set of waltzes, I vow,With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hearThat our ball has been quite a success.As forme—I've been looking a monster, my dear.In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;It is getting so dreadfully late.You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the headIf you linger so long at our gate.Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice—For I know you're in want of repose:Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice),And remember to tallow your nose.No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.As toyou—if you like it, of course you can stay,You were always an obstinate thing.If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rsAbout "babble and revel and wine,"When you might have been snoring for two or three hours,Why, it's not the least business of mine.
Henry S. Leigh.
"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too."Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too.Most fair and sweet to them that only love them;Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them."Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty;"Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity;They are so witty, and in wit so wily,Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye."Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many;"Can women fond be faithful unto any?"When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable,Then women fond will be both firm and stable."Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils;"Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils.So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them,So needful evils that few can live without them."Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them."Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them.Or so imperious, no man can endure them,Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.
Francis Davison.
Upon ane stormy Sunday,Coming adoon the lane,Were a score of bonnie lassies—And the sweetest I maintainWas Caddie,That I took unneath my plaidie,To shield her from the rain.She said that the daisies blushedFor the kiss that I had ta'en;I wadna hae thought the lassieWad 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 selfsame 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.
LAURA
On me he shall ne'er put a ring,So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble—For I was but eighteen in springWhile his age exactly is double.
MAMMA
He's but in his thirty-sixth year,Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,And should you refuse him, my dear,May you die an old maid without pity!
LAURA
His figure, I grant you, will pass,And at present he's young enough plenty;But when I am sixty, alas!Will not he be a hundred and twenty?
Charles Graham Halpine.
When swallows Northward flewForth from his home did fareGuy, Lord of LanturlaireAnd Lanturlu.Swore he to cross the brine,Pausing not, night nor day,That he might Paynims slayIn Palestine.Half a league on his wayMet he a shepherdessBeaming with loveliness—Fair as Young Day.Gazed he in eyes of blue—Saw love in hiding thereGuy, Lord of LanturlaireAnd Lanturlu."Let the foul Paynim wait!"Plead Love, "and stay with me.Cruel and cold the sea—Here's brighter fate."When swallows Southward flewBack to his home did fareGuy, Lord of LanturlaireAnd Lanturlu.Led he his charger gayBearing a shepherdessBeaming with happiness—Fair as Young Day.White lambs, be-ribboned blue—Tends now with anxious care,Guy, Lord of LanturlaireAnd Lanturlu.
George F. Warren.
Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun'
Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town.
(Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified,
Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.)
But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me,
"Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she.
Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life,
An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife.
Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess;
An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess;
Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers,
An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers.
An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft;
Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left;
An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's,
But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds.
Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed;
But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed;
An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read
Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed."
"Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me!
I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she.
"When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet,
I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set."
Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said,
'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed;
An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style;
An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while.
Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see
That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she;
But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use,
We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose.
Albert Bigelow Paine.
Far, oh, far is the Mango island,Far, oh, far is the tropical sea—Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, andA cannibal maiden a-waiting for me.I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish,And Indian maidens both red and brown,A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish,And a Puritan lassie of Salem town.For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing,A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine,And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffingOf all of the wimming I ever seen.But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur,With a habit of gazin' over the sea,A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er,And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me.Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double—Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed,And the Danish damsel she made me troubleWhen she ups and married an oblong Swede.But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango,Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork,As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango,A-waitin' for me—with a knife and fork.
Wallace Irwin.
O reverend sir, I do declareIt drives me most to frenzy,To think of you a-lying thereDown sick with influenzy.A body'd thought it was enoughTo mourn your wife's departer,Without sich trouble as this ereTo come a-follerin' arter.But sickness and afflictionAre sent by a wise creation,And always ought to be underwentBy patience and resignation.O, I could to your bedside fly,And wipe your weeping eyes,And do my best to cure you up,If 'twouldn't create surprise.It's a world of trouble we tarry in,But, Elder, don't despair;That you may soon be movin' againIs constantly my prayer.Both sick and well, you may dependYou'll never be forgotBy your faithful and affectionate friend,Priscilla Pool Bedott.
Frances Miriam Whitcher.
She stood beneath the mistletoeThat hung above the door,Quite conscious of the sprig above,Revered by maids of yore.A timid longing filled her heart;Her pulses throbbed with heat;He sprang to where the fair girl stood."May I—just one—my sweet?"He asked his love, who tossed her head,"Just do it—if—you dare!" she said.He sat before the fireplaceDown at the club that night."She loves me not," he hotly said,"Therefore she did but right!"She sat alone within her room,And with her finger-tipsShe held his picture to her heart,Then pressed it to her lips."My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you—caredYou surely would have—would have—dared."
George Francis Shults.
It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell.When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo—Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo."Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?""I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,Because an article like that hath never come my way;And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell."My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,—A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke."My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.I cannot bring him water—the pitcher is in pieces—And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces.""Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me!So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree—He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three:"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!"He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.Up rose the Moorish maiden—behind the knight she steals,And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels;She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,—"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
William E. Aytoun.
"You must give back," her mother said,To a poor sobbing little maid,"All the young man has given you,Hard as it now may seem to do.""'Tis done already, mother dear!"Said the sweet girl, "So never fear."Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount(There was not much) the whole amount.Girl. The locket; the kid gloves.Mother.Go on.Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one.Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed.You gave back all his trash?Girl.Indeed.Mother. And was there nothing you would save?Girl. Everything I could give I gave.Mother. To the last tittle?Girl.Even to that.Mother. Freely?Girl.My heart went pit-a-patAt giving up ... ah me! ah me!I cry so I can hardly see ...All the fond looks and words that past,And all the kisses, to the last.
Walter Savage Landor.
There once was a Shah had a second sonWho was very unlike his elder one,For he went about on his own affairs,And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers;When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!"Noureddin, the son of the Shah.But worst of all of the pranks he playedWas to fall in love with a Christian maid,—An Armenian maid who wore no veil,Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale;At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!"Noureddin, the son of the Shah."I will shut him close in an iron cage,"The monarch said, in a fuming rage;But the prince slipped out by a postern door,And away to the mountains his loved one bore;Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!"Noureddin, the son of the Shah.And still in the town of Teheran,When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,—All frowns and threats with a laugh defy,And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,—Folk meet and greet with a gay "Ha, ha!"Noureddin, the son of the Shah.
Clinton Scollard.
There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,And they met—in the usual way.Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"And he was—in the usual way.So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about,But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out;And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay:But she did—in the usual way.Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh,As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by;"We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray,And they did—in the usual way.And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro,And day by day the fishes swam securely down below;Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,Very much—in the usual way.And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do?Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey?Well—they do—in the usual way.
Frederic E. Weatherly.
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,To Arcady, to Arcady;Oh, what's the way to Arcady,Where all the leaves are merry?Oh, what's the way to Arcady?The spring is rustling in the tree—The tree the wind is blowing through—It sets the blossoms flickering white.I knew not skies could burn so blueNor any breezes blow so light.They blow an old-time way for me,Across the world to Arcady.Oh, what's the way to Arcady?Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.How have you heart for any tune,You with the wayworn russet shoon?Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.I'll brim it well with pieces red,If you will tell the way to tread.Oh, I am bound for Arcady,And if you but keep pace with meYou tread the way to Arcady.And where away lies Arcady,And how long yet may the journey be?Ah, that(quoth he)I do not know—Across the clover and the snow—Across the frost, across the flowers—Through summer seconds and winter hoursI've trod the way my whole life long,And know not now where it may be;My guide is but the stir to song,That tells me I cannot go wrong,Or clear or dark the pathway beUpon the road to Arcady.But how shall I do who cannot sing?I was wont to sing, once on a time—There is never an echo now to ringRemembrance back to the trick of rhyme.'Tis strange you cannot sing(quoth he),The folk all sing in Arcady.But how may he find ArcadyWho hath not youth nor melody?What, know you not, old man(quoth he)—Your hair is white, your face is wise—That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyesWho hopes to see fair Arcady?No gold can buy you entrance there;But beggared Love may go all bare—No wisdom won with weariness;But Love goes in with Folly's dress—No fame that wit could ever win;But only Love may lead Love inTo Arcady, to Arcady.Ah, woe is me, through all my daysWisdom and wealth I both have got,And fame and name, and great men's praise;But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.There was a time, when life was new—But far away, and half forgot—I only know her eyes were blue;But Love—I fear I knew it not.We did not wed, for lack of gold,And she is dead, and I am old.All things have come since then to me,Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.Ah, then I fear we part(quoth he),My way's for Love and Arcady.But you, you fare alone, like me;The gray is likewise in your hair.What love have you to lead you there,To Arcady, to Arcady?Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;My true companion's Memory.With Love he fills the Spring-time air;With Love he clothes the Winter tree.Oh, past this poor horizon's boundMy song goes straight to one who stands—Her face all gladdening at the sound—To lead me to the Spring-green lands,To wander with enlacing hands.The songs within my breast that stirAre all of her, are all of her.My maid is dead long years(quoth he),She waits for me in Arcady.Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,To Arcady, to Arcady;Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,Where all the leaves are merry.
H. C. Bunner.
Oh, the days were ever shinyWhen I ran to meet my love;When I press'd her hand so tinyThrough her tiny tiny glove.Was I very deeply smitten?Oh, I loved likeanything!But my love she is a kitten,And my heart's a ball of string.She was pleasingly poetic,And she loved my little rhymes;For our tastes were sympathetic,In the old and happy times.Oh, the ballads I have written,And have taught my love to sing!But my love she is a kitten,And my heart's a ball of string.Would she listen to my offer,On my knees I would impartA sincere and ready profferOf my hand and of my heart.And below her dainty mittenI would fix a wedding ring—But my love she is a kitten,And my heart's a ball of string.Take a warning, happy lover,From the moral that I show;Or too late you may discoverWhat I learn'd a month ago.We are scratch'd or we are bittenBy the pets to whom we cling.Oh, my love she is a kitten,And my heart's a ball of string.
Henry S. Leigh.
She flung the parlour window wideOne eve of mid-July,And he, as fate would have it tide,That moment sauntered by.His eyes were blue and hers were brown,With drooping fringe of jet;And he looked up as she looked down,And so their glances met.Things as strange, I dare to say,Happen somewhere every day.A mile beyond the straggling street,A quiet pathway goes;And lovers here are wont to meet,As all the country knows.Now she one night at half-past eightHad sought that lonely lane,Whenhecame up, by will of fate,And so they met again.Things as strange, I dare to say,Happen somewhere every day.The parish church, so old and gray,Is quite a sight to see;And he was there at ten one day,And so, it chanced, was she.And while they stood, with cheeks aflame,And neighbours liked the fun,In stole and hood the parson came,And made the couple one.Things as strange, I dare to say,Happen somewhere every day.
Frederick Langbridge.
I
If you become a nun, dear,A friar I will be;In any cell you run, dear,Pray look behind for me.The roses all turn pale, too;The doves all take the veil, too;The blind will see the show:What! you become a nun, my dear!I'll not believe it, no.
II
If you become a nun, dear,The bishop Love will be;The Cupids every one, dear,Will chaunt "We trust in thee";The incense will go sighing,The candles fall a dying,The water turn to wine:What! you go take the vows, my dear!You may—but they'll be mine.
Leigh Hunt.
I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me—Our mutual flame is like th' affinityThat doth exist between two simple bodies:I am Potassium to thine Oxygen.'Tis little that the holy marriage vowShall shortly make us one. That unityIs, after all, but metaphysical.Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an acid,A living acid; thou an alkaliEndow'd with human sense, that, brought together,We both might coalesce into one salt,One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thouWert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen;We would unite to form olefiant gas,Or common coal, or naphtha—would to heavenThat I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid,So that thou might be Soda. In that caseWe should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou MagnesiaInstead we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom.Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis,Our happy union should that compound form,Nitrate of Potash—otherwise Saltpetre.And thus our several natures sweetly blent,We'd live and love together, until deathShould decompose the fleshlytertium quid,Leaving our souls to all eternityAmalgamated. Sweet, thy name is BriggsAnd mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not weAgree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?
Unknown.
I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl—The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother;A feeble flame around the lamp did curl,Making faint shadows, blending in each other:'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November;She had a shawl on, also, I remember.Well, I had been to see her every nightFor thirteen days, and had a sneaking notionTo pop the question, thinking all was right,And once or twice had make an awkward motionTo take her hand, and stammer'd, cough'd, and stutter'd,But, somehow, nothing to the point had utter'd.I thought this chance too good now to be lost;I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her,Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross'd,Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her:She looked as if she knew what next was coming,And with her feet upon the floor was drumming.I didn't know how to begin, or where—I couldn't speak—the words were always choking;I scarce could move—I seem'd tied to the chair—I hardly breathed—'twas awfully provoking!The perspiration from each pore came oozing,My heart, and brain, and limbs their power seem'd losing.At length I saw a brindle tabby catWalk purring up, inviting me to pat her;An idea came, electric-like at that—My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter,I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me,And said, "Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me."'Twas done at once—the murder now was out;The thing was all explain'd in half a minute.She blush'd, and, turning pussy-cat about,Said, "Pussy, tell him 'yes'"; her foot was in it!The cat had thus saved me my category,And here's the catastrophe of my story.
Unknown.
Lanty was in love, you see,With lovely, lively Rosie Carey;But her father can't agreeTo give the girl to Lanty Leary.Up to fun, "Away we'll run,"Says she, "my father's so contrary.Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?""Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.But her father died one day(I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather);House and land and cash, they say,He left, by will, to Rose, his daughter;House and land and cash to seize,Away she cut so light and airy."Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?""Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.Rose, herself, was taken bad;The fayver worse each day was growin';"Lanty, dear," says she, "'tis sad,To th' other world I'm surely goin'.You can't survive my loss, I know,Nor long remain in Tipperary.Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?""Faith, I won't!" says Lanty Leary.
Samuel Lover.
Her heart she locked fast in her breast,Away from molestation;The lock was warranted the best—A patent combination.She knew no simple lock and keyWould serve to keep out Love and me.But Love a clever cracksman is,And cannot be resisted;He likes such stubborn jobs as this,Complex and hard and twisted,And though we worked a many day,At last we bore her heart away.For Love has learned full many tricksIn his strange avocation;He knew the figures were but sixIn this, her combination;Nor did we for a minute restUntil we had unlocked her breast.First, then, we turned the knob to "Sighs,"Then back to "Words Sincerest,"Then "Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes,"Then "Softly Murmured 'Dearest;'"Then, next, "A Warm Embrace" we tried,And at "A Kiss" the door flew wide.
Ellis Parker Butler.
We climbed to the top of Goat Point hill,Sweet Kitty, my sweetheart, and I;And watched the moon make stars on the waves,And the dim white ships go by,While a throne we made on a rough stone wall,And the king and the queen were we;And I sat with my arm about Kitty,And she with her arm about me.The water was mad in the moonlight,And the sand like gold where it shone,And our hearts kept time to its music,As we sat in the splendour alone.And Kitty's dear eyes twinkled brightly,And Kitty's brown hair blew so free,While I sat with my arm about Kitty,And she with her arm about me.Last night we drove in our carriage,To the wall at the top of the hill;And though we're forty years older,We're children and sweethearts still.And we talked again of that moonlightThat danced so mad on the sea,When I sat with my arm about Kitty,And she with her arm about me.The throne on the wall was still standing,But we sat in the carriage last night,For a wall is too high for old peopleWhose foreheads have linings of white.And Kitty's waist measure is forty,While mine is full fifty and three,So I can't get my arm about Kitty,Nor can she get both hers around me.
H. H. Porter.
Beauties, have ye seen this toy,Calléd love, a little boyAlmost naked, wanton, blind,Cruel now, and then as kind?If he be amongst ye, say!He is Venus' runaway.He hath of marks about him plenty;Ye shall know him among twenty;All his body is a fire,And his breath a flame entire,That, being shot like lightning in,Wounds the heart, but not the skin.He doth bear a golden bow,And a quiver, hanging low,Full of arrows, that outbraveDian's shafts, where, if he haveAny head more sharp than other,With that first he strikes his mother.Trust him not: his words, though sweet,Seldom with his heart do meet;All his practice is deceit,Every gift is but a bait;Not a kiss but poison bears,And most treason in his tears.If by these ye please to know him,Beauties, be not nice, but show him,Though ye had a will to hide him.Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him,Since ye hear his falser play,And that he's Venus' runaway.
Ben Jonson.
I shall not ask Jean Jacques RousseauIf birds confabulate or no;'Tis clear that they were always ableTo hold discourse, at least in fable;And e'en the child who knows no betterThan to interpret, by the letter,A story of a cock and bull,Must have a most uncommon skull.It chanced, then, on a winter's day,But warm, and bright, and calm as May,The birds, conceiving a designTo forestall sweet St. Valentine,In many an orchard, copse, and grove,Assembled on affairs of love,And, with much twitter and much chatter,Began to agitate the matter.At length a bullfinch, who could boastMore years and wisdom than the most,Entreated, opening wide his beak,A moment's liberty to speak;And, silence publicly enjoin'd,Deliver'd briefly thus his mind:"My friends, be cautious how ye treatThe subject upon which we meet;I fear we shall have winter yet."A finch, whose tongue knew no control,With golden wing and satin poll,A last year's bird, who ne'er had triedWhat marriage means, thus pert replied:"Methinks the gentleman," quoth she,"Opposite in the apple-tree,By his good-will would keep us singleTill yonder heaven and earth shall mingle,Or—which is likelier to befall—'Til death exterminate us all.I marry without more ado.My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?"Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling,Turned short 'round, strutting, and sidling,Attested, glad, his approbationOf an immediate conjugation.Their sentiments, so well express'd,Influenced mightily the rest;All pair'd, and each pair built a nest.But, though the birds were thus in haste,The leaves came on not quite so fast,And destiny, that sometimes bearsAn aspect stern on man's affairs,Not altogether smiled on theirs.The wind, of late breathed gently forth,Now shifted east, and east by north;Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,Could shelter them from rain or snow.Stepping into their nests, they paddled,Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled.Soon every father bird and motherGrew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other,Parted without the least regret,Except that they had ever met,And learn'd in future to be wiserThan to neglect a good adviser.
MORAL
Misses, the tale that I relateThis lesson seems to carry:Choose not alone a proper mate,But proper time to marry.
William Cowper.
Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snareOr the tabby cat's shot on the tiles?Why the tigers and lions creep out of their lair?Why an ostrich will travel for miles?Do you know why a sane man will whimper and cryAnd weep o'er a ribbon or glove?Why a cook will put sugar for salt in a pie?Do you know? Well, I'll tell you—it's Love.
H. P. Stevens.
I
'Twas on a windy night,At two o'clock in the morning,An Irish lad so tight,All wind and weather scorning,At Judy Callaghan's door.Sitting upon the palings,His love-tale he did pour,And this was part of his wailings:—Only sayYou'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
II
Oh! list to what I say,Charms you've got like Venus;Own your love you may,There's but the wall between us.You lie fast asleepSnug in bed and snoring;Round the house I creep,Your hard heart imploring.Only sayYou'll have Mr. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
III
I've got a pig and a sow,I've got a sty to sleep 'emA calf and a brindled cow,And a cabin too, to keep 'em;Sunday hat and coat,An old grey mare to ride on,Saddle and bridle to boot,Which you may ride astride on.Only sayYou'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
IV
I've got an acre of ground,I've got it set with praties;I've got of 'baccy a pound,I've got some tea for the ladies;I've got the ring to wed,Some whisky to make us gaily;I've got a feather bedAnd a handsome new shillelagh.Only sayYou'll have Mr. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
V
You've got a charming eye,You've got some spelling and readingYou've got, and so have I,A taste for genteel breeding;You're rich, and fair, and young,As everybody's knowing;You've got a decent tongueWhene'er 'tis set a-going.Only sayYou'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
VI
For a wife till deathI am willing to take ye;But, och! I waste my breath,The devil himself can't wake ye.'Tis just beginning to rain,So I'll get under cover;To-morrow I'll come again,And be your constant lover.Only sayYou'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;Don't say nay,Charming Judy Callaghan.
Father Prout.
I hae laid a herring in saut—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut,And I canna come ilka day to woo:I hae a calf that will soon be a cow—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe,And I canna come ilka day to woo:I hae a house upon yon moor—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;Three sparrows may dance upon the floor,And I canna come ilka day to woo:I hae a but, and I hae a ben—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;A penny to keep, and a penny to spen',And I canna come ilka day to woo:I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;That ilka day lays me an egg,And I canna come ilka day to woo:I hae a cheese upon my skelf—Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself,And I canna come ilka day to woo.
James Tytler.
Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me;I prithee now, wilt? and I'll marry thee,My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,And all my lands and tenements:Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?I cannot come every day to woo.I've corn and hay in the barn hardby,And three fat hogs pent up in the sty,I have a mare and she is coal black,I ride on her tail to save my back.Then say, etc.I have a cheese upon the shelf,And I cannot eat it all myself;I've three good marks that lie in a rag,In a nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.Then say, etc.To marry I would have thy consent,But faith I never could compliment;I can say nought but "Hoy, gee ho!"Words that belong to the cart and the plough.So say, my Joan, will not that do,I cannot come every day to woo.
Unknown.
Out upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together;And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.Time shall moult away his wings,Ere he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant Lover.But the spite on't is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
Sir John Suckling.
I lately lived in quiet case,An' ne'er wish'd 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 trepann'd me fairly, O!Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clearTorment me late an' early O!O, love, love, love!Love is like a dizziness;It winna let a poor bodyGang about his biziness!To tell my feats this single weekWad mak a daft-like diary, O!I drave my cart out ow'r 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!O, love, love, love! etc.Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,I rase to theek the stable, O!I keust my coat, and plied awayAs 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 look'd about,Gudefaith, it was the byre, O!O, love, love, love! etc.Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget,The dear, the lovely blinkin o'tHas pierced me through an' through the heart,An' plagues me wi' the prinking o't.I tried to sing, I tried to pray,I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't,I tried with sport to drive't away,But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.O, love, love, love! etc.Nae man can tell what pains I prove,Or how severe my pliskie, O!I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' loveThan 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!O, love, love, love!Love is like a dizziness;It winna let a poor bodyGang about his biziness!
James Hogg.
Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly,Doing nothing sits the chore boy, Billy:"Seconds reckoned,Seconds reckoned;Every minute,Sixty in it.Milly, Billy,Billy, Milly,Tick-tock, tock-tick,Nick-knock, knock-nick,Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"—Goes the kitchen clock.Closer to the fire is rosy Milly,Every whit as close and cosy, Billy:"Time's a-flying,Worth your trying;Pretty Milly—Kiss her, Billy!Milly, Billy,Billy, Milly,Tick-tock, tock-tick,Now—now, quick—quick!Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"—Goes the kitchen clock.Something's happened, very red is Milly,Billy boy is looking very silly;"Pretty misses,Plenty kisses;Make it twenty,Take a plenty.Billy, Milly,Milly, Billy,Right—left, left—right,That's right, all right,Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"—Goes the kitchen clock.Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy;O, the winter winds are wondrous chilly!"Winter weather,Close together;Wouldn't tarry,Better marry.Milly, Billy,Billy, Milly,Two—one, one—two,Don't wait, 'twon't do,Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"—Goes the kitchen clock.Winters two have gone, and where is Milly?Spring has come again, and where is Billy?"Give me credit,For I did it;Treat me kindly,Mind you wind me.Mister Billy,Mistress Milly,My—O, O—my,By-by, by-by,Nickety-knock, cradle rock,"—Goes the kitchen clock.
John Vance Cheney.
Lady mine, most fair thou artWith youth's gold and white and red;'Tis a pity that thy heartIs so much harder than thy head.This has stayed my kisses oft,This from all thy charms debarr'd,That thy head is strangely soft,While thy heart is strangely hard.Nothing had kept us apart—I had loved thee, I had wed—Hadst thou had a softer heartOr a harder head.But I think I'll bear Love's smartTill the wound has healed and fled,Or thy head is like thy heart,Or thy heart is like thy head.
H. E. Clarke.
In the "foursome" some would fainFind nepenthe for their woe;Following through shine or rainWhere the "greens" like satin show;But I vote such sport as "slow"—Find it rather glum and gruesome;With a little maid I knowI would play a quiet "twosome"!In the "threesome," some maintain,Lies excitement's gayest glow—Strife that mounts unto the brainLike the sparklingVeuve Clicquot;My opinion? Nay, not so!Noon or eve or morning dewsomeWith a little maid I knowI would play a quiet "twosome"!Bays of glory some would gainWith grim "Bogey" for their foe;(He's a bogey who's not slainSave one smite with canny blow!)Yet I hold this tame, and thoughMy refrain seems trite, 'tis truesome;With a little maid I knowI would play a quiet "twosome"!
ENVOY
Comrades all who golfing go,Happiness—if you would view some—With a little maidyouknow,Haste and play a quiet "twosome"!
Clinton Scollard.
Some poets sing of sweethearts dead,Some sing of true loves far away;Some sing of those that others wed,And some of idols turned to clay.I sing a pensive roundelayTo sweethearts of a doubtful lot,The passions vanished in a day—The little loves that I've forgot.For, as the happy years have sped,And golden dreams have changed to gray,How oft the flame of love was fedBy glance, or smile, from Maud or May,When wayward Cupid was at play;Mere fancies, formed of who knows what,But still my debt I ne'er can pay—The little loves that I've forgot.O joyous hours forever fled!O sudden hopes that would not stay!Held only by the slender threadOf memory that's all astray.Their very names I cannot say.Time's will is done, I know them not;But blessings on them all, I pray—The little loves that I've forgot.
ENVOI
Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray?Ours is the one true lovers' knot;Note well the burden of my lay—The little loves that I've forgot.
Arthur Grissom.