Part 14
I repaired to my Reason, entreated her aid; Who paused on my case and each circumstance weighed, Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, That "Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!"
"That's a truth," replied I, "I've no need to be taught; I came for your counsel to find out a fault." "If that's all," quoth Reason, "return as you came; To find fault with Hebe, would forfeit my name."
What hopes then, alas! of relief from my pain, While, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein? My Senses surprised, in her favor took arms; And Reason confirms me a slave to her charms.
John West [1693-1766]
A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND From "The Contrivances"
Genteel in personage, Conduct, and equipage, Noble by heritage, Generous and free: Brave, not romantic; Learned, not pedantic; Frolic, not frantic; This must he be.
Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining, Engaging and new. Neat, but not finical; Sage, but not cynical; Never tyrannical, But ever true.
Henry Carey [? -1743]
"PHILLADA FLOUTS ME"
O what a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She looked another way And would not spy me: I wooed her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine - He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she looked askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me.
Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me! She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattress beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me!
She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin - Yet all's not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me.
In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me.
Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laughed at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favors me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penned in a meadow, I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.
Unknown
"WHEN MOLLY SMILES"
When Molly smiles beneath her cow, I feel my heart - I can't tell how; When Molly is on Sunday dressed, On Sundays I can take no rest.
What can I do? On worky days I leave my work on her to gaze. What shall I say? At sermons, I Forget the text when Molly's by.
Good master curate, teach me how To mind your preaching and my plow: And if for this you'll raise a spell, A good fat goose shall thank you well.
Unknown
CONTENTIONS
It was a lordling's daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be; Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see Her fancy fell a-turning.
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: To put in practice either, alas! it was a spite Unto the silly damsel.
But one must be refused: more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain; For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas! she could not help it.
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away; Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gays For now my song is ended.
Unknown
"I ASKED MY FAIR, ONE HAPPY DAY" After Lessing
I asked my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece.
"Ah!" replied my gentle fair, "Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only - only call me thine."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]
THE EXCHANGE
We pledged our hearts, my love and I, - I in my arms the maiden clasping: I could not tell the reason why, But oh! I trembled like an aspen.
Her father's love she bade me gain; I went, and shook like any reed! I strove to act the man - in vain! We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]
"COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE"
Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin' through the rye.
Oh Jenny's a' wat poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin' through the rye.
Gin a body meet a body, Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warld ken?
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!"
There's naught but care on every han', In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O!
The warl'ly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O! An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
Gie me a canny hour at e'en; My arms about my dearie, O! An' warl'ly cares, an' warl'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; Ye'er naught but senseless asses, O! The wisest man the warl' e'er saw He dearly loved the lasses, O!
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O! Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
DEFIANCE
Catch her and hold her if you can - See, she defies you with her fan, Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread In threatening guise above your head. Ah! why did you not start before She reached the porch and closed the door? Simpleton! will you never learn That girls and time will not return; Of each you should have made the most; Once gone, they are forever lost. In vain your knuckles knock your brow, In vain will you remember how Like a slim brook the gamesome maid Sparkled, and ran into the shade.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
OF CLEMENTINA
In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me?
Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not culled as sweet before: Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore.
I now behold another scene, Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright.
Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty who, when she goes, Is gone for ever.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
"THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING"
The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, - My only books Were women's looks, And folly's all they taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me; But when the spell was on me, If once their ray Was turned away, O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No - vain, alas! th' endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; - Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
DEAR FANNY
"She has beauty, but you must keep your heart cool; She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so": Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season"; Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons better than Reason, Dear Fanny Love reasons much better than Reason.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY
There's a certain young lady, Who's just in her hey-day, And full of all mischief, I ween; So teasing! so pleasing! Capricious! delicious! And you know very well whom I mean.
With an eye dark as night, Yet than noonday more bright, Was ever a black eye so keen? It can thrill with a glance, With a beam can entrance, And you know very well whom I mean.
With a stately step - such as You'd expect in a duchess - And a brow might distinguish a queen, With a mighty proud air, That says "touch me who dare," And you know very well whom I mean.
With a toss of the head That strikes one quite dead, But a smile to revive one again; That toss so appalling! That smile so enthralling! And you know very well whom I mean.
Confound her! de'il take her! - A cruel heart-breaker - But hold! see that smile so serene. God love her! God bless her! May nothing distress her! You know very well whom I mean.
Heaven help the adorer Who happens to bore her, The lover who wakens her spleen; But too blest for a sinner Is he who shall win her, And you know very well whom I mean.
Washington Irving [1783-1859]
"WHERE BE YOU GOING, YOU DEVON MAID"
Where be you going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket? Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; But oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook; Your shawl I'll hang on a willow; And we will sigh in the daisy's eye, And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
John Keats [1795-1821]
LOVE IN A COTTAGE
They may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine, - Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier, - With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine.
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.