And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet, The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near"; The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear"; She is coming, my own, my sweet! But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose, -feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Search the world all around from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing! Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!" DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? O NANCY, wilt thou go with me, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy when thou 'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret cach courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay, Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair? THOMAS PERCY, D.D. BEDOUIN LOVE SONG. FROM the Desert I come to thee, And the midnight hears my cry: And the leaves of the Judgment Look from thy window, and see And I faint in thy disdain. Of a love that shall not die And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad, But warily tent, when ye come to court me, O whistle, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, O whistle, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, O whistle, &c. ROBERT BURNS. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. IF that the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, But could youth last, and love still breed, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. COME, live with me, and be my love, A belt of straw, and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. |