Part 41
I knew the law forbade the banns; I knew my king abhorred her race; Who never bent before their clans Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife: Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night; And twin-like truth and fondness lies Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair, Apollo's harp had once such strings, Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.
I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life: In death I would be near her, And rise beside my Irish wife.
Thomas D'Arcy McGee [1825-1868]
MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING
See is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.
I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And niest my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack we share o't, The warsle and the care o't: Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, And think my lot divine.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
LETTICE
I said to Lettice, our sister Lettice, While drooped and glistened her eyelash brown, "Your man's a poor man, a cold and dour man, There's many a better about our town." She smiled securely - "He loves me purely: A true heart's safe, both in smile or frown; And nothing harms me while his love warms me, Whether the world go up or down."
"He comes of strangers, and they are rangers, And ill to trust, girl, when out of sight: Fremd folk may blame ye, and e'en defame ye, A gown oft handled looks seldom white." She raised serenely her eyelids queenly, - "My innocence is my whitest gown; No harsh tongue grieves me while he believes me, Whether the world go up or down."
"Your man's a frail man, was ne'er a hale man, And sickness knocketh at every door, And death comes making bold hearts cower, breaking -" Our Lettice trembled; - but once, no more. "If death should enter, smite to the center Our poor home palace, all crumbling down, He cannot fright us, nor disunite us, Life bears Love's cross, death brings Love's crown."
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]
"IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE"
If thou wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale!
If thou, my love, wert by my side, My babies at my knee, How gayly would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
I miss thee at the dawning gray, When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay And woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear.
But when at morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads, My course be onward still, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee!
Reginald Heber [1783-1826]
THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG From "The Mourning Garment"
Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, And sweeter, too: For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest love to frown: Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight, And merrier, too: For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curds, as doth a king his meat, And blither, too: For kings have often fears when they do sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, As is a king in dalliance with a queen; More wanton, too: For kings have many griefs, affects to move, Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:
Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his bed of down; More sounder, too: For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Thus, with his wife, he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or sithe, And blither, too: For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land: Ah then, ah then, Since country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
"TRUTH DOTH TRUTH DESERVE" From the "Arcadia"
Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be, First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve: Then such be he as she his worth may see, And one man still credit with her preserve. Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind; Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right; Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind; Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light. As far from want, as far from vain expense (The one doth force, the latter doth entice); Allow good company, but keep from thence All filthy mouths that glory in their vice. This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest To virtue, fortune, time, and woman's breast.
Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
THE MARRIED LOVER From "The Angel in the House"
Why, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favor feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by; Because, although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattained desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to heaven; because, in short, She's not and never can be mine.
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
MY LOVE
Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise: For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems following its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
MARGARET TO DOLCINO
Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell Plainer what tears are now showing too well. Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, Weeping by thee.
Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow Pride from man's slander, and strength from my sorrow? Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide Weeping by thee.
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
DOLCINO TO MARGARET
The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frown, Can never come over again, Sweet wife: No, never come over again.
For woman is warm, though man be cold, And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and old Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife; To its work in the morning gay.
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
AT LAST
When first the bride and bridegroom wed, They love their single selves the best; A sword is in the marriage bed, Their separate slumbers are not rest. They quarrel, and make up again, They give and suffer worlds of pain. Both right and wrong, They struggle long, Till some good day, when they are old, Some dark day, when the bells are tolled, Death having taken their best of life, They lose themselves, and find each other; They know that they are husband, wife, For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!
Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]
THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND
Linger not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return!
Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell!
How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?
Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull; For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, My cup of happiness is all too full.
Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest!
Unknown
A WIFE'S SONG
O well I love the Spring, When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows; And well I love the Summer, And the coming of the rose; But dearer are the changing leaf, And the year upon the wane, For O, they bring the blessed time That brings him home again.
November may be dreary, December's days may be As full of gloom to others As once they were to me; But O, to hear the tempest Beat loud against the pane! For the roaring wind and the blessed time That brings him home again.
William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]
THE SAILOR'S WIFE
And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to talk o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel! Is this a time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak - I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava', There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa'.
And gi'e to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gi'e little Kate her button gown, And Jock his Sunday coat. And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my own gudeman, He likes to see them braw.
There's twa hens upon the bauk, Hae fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about That Colin weel may fare! And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; For wha can tell how Colin fared, When he was far awa'?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!
If Colin's weel, and weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest abune the lave. And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet! For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'.
William Julius Mickle [1735-1788] (or Jean Adam (?) [1710-1765])
JERRY AN' ME
No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.
They told him - Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall - They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.
Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him. Be all to him you may.
He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.
I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed. But he shall never know - my man - The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a stitch or fill A needleful o' thread.
God pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an' - me.
Hiram Rich [1832-1901]
"DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING"
O don't be sorrowful, darling! And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day.
'Tis rainy weather, my darling; Time's waves they heavily run; But taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more cloud than sun.
We are old folks now, my darling, Our heads are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May.
We have had our May, my darling, And our roses long ago; And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the silent night and the snow.
But God is God, my darling, Of the night as well as the day; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way.
A God of the night, my darling, Of the night of death so grim; The gate that leads out of life, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him.
Rembrandt Peale [1778-1860]
WINIFREDA
Away! let naught to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honors, And, to be noble, we'll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.
What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess; We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, And be content without excess.
Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live life of reason, And that's the only life to live.
Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.
Unknown
AN OLD MAN'S IDYL
By the waters of Life we sat together, Hand in hand, in the golden days Of the beautiful early summer weather, When skies were purple and breath was praise, When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, And trees with voices aeolian.
By the rivers of Life we walked together, I and my darling, unafraid; And lighter than any linnet's feather The burdens of being on us weighed; And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw Mantles of joy outlasting Time, And up from the rosy morrows grew A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.
In the gardens of Life we strayed together, And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac, and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; And under the trees the angels walked, And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.
In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Watching the waving harvests grow, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks.
Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Of something higher than humanhood.
Oh, the riches Love doth inherit! Oh, the alchemy which doth change Dross of body and dregs of spirit Into sanctities rare and strange! My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, My darling's beautiful hair is gray; But our elixir and precious gold Laugh at the footsteps of decay.
Harms of the world have come unto us, Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; But we have a secret which doth show us Wonderful rainbows in the rain. And we hear the tread of the years move by, And the sun is setting behind the hills; But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what God wills.
So we sit by our household fires together, Dreaming the dreams of long ago; Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold, - 'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait.
Richard Realf [1834-1878]
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE
How many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When it bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours.
Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears, - a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; - All else is flown!
Ah! - With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!
Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]
JOHN ANDERSON
John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
TO MARY
"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed, So, fourteen years ago, I said - Behold another ring! - "For what? To wed thee o'er again - why not?"
With that first ring I married Youth, Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.
Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense and pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token, and a pledge, I bring; With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues, whose progessive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's.