Chapter 10

Arise, my Isabel, arise! The sun shoots forth his early ray, The hue of love is in the skies, The birds are singing, come away! O come, my Isabella, come, With inky tendrils hanging low; Thy cheeks like roses just in bloom, That in the healthy Summer glow.

That eye it turns the world away From wanton sport and recklessness; That eye beams with a cheerful ray, And smiles propitiously to bless. O come, my Isabella, dear! O come, and fill these longing arms! Come, let me see thy beauty here, And bend in worship o'er thy charms.

O come, my Isabella, love! My dearest Isabella, come! Thy heart's affection, let me prove, And kiss thy beauty in its bloom. My Isabella, young and fair, Thou darling of my home and heart, Come, love, my bosom's truth to share, And of its being form a part.

THE SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER

How sweet is every lengthening day, And every change of weather, When Summer comes, on skies blue grey, And brings her hosts together, Her flocks of birds, her crowds of flowers, Her sunny-shining water! I dearly love the woodbine bowers, That hide the Shepherd's Daughter-- In gown of green or brown or blue, The Shepherd's Daughter, leal and true.

How bonny is her lily breast! How sweet her rosy face! She'd give my aching bosom rest, Where love would find its place. While earth is green, and skies are blue, And sunshine gilds the water, While Summer's sweet and Nature true, I'll love the Shepherd's Daughter-- Her nut brown hair, her clear bright eye, My daily thought, my only joy.

She's such a simple, sweet young thing, Dressed in her country costume. My wits had used to know the Spring, Till I saw, and loved, and lost 'em. How quietly the lily lies Upon the deepest water! How sweet to me the Summer skies! And so's the Shepherd's Daughter-- With lily breast and rosy face The sweetest maid in any place.

My singing bird, my bonny flower, How dearly could I love thee! To sit with thee one pleasant hour, If thou would'st but approve me! I swear by lilies white and yellow, That flower on deepest water, Would'st thou but make me happy fellow, I'd wed the Shepherd's Daughter! By all that's on the earth or water, I more than love the Shepherd's Daughter.

LASSIE, I LOVE THEE

Lassie, I love thee! The heavens above thee Look downwards to move thee, And prove my love true. My arms round thy waist, love, My head on thy breast, love; By a true man caressed love, Ne'er bid me adieu.

Thy cheek's full o' blushes, Like the rose in the bushes, While my love ardent gushes With over delight. Though clouds may come o'er thee, Sweet maid, I'll adore thee, As I do now before thee: I love thee outright.

It stings me to madness To see thee all gladness, While I'm full of sadness Thy meaning to guess. Thy gown is deep blue, love, In honour of true love: Ever thinking of you, love, My love I'll confess.

My love ever showing, Thy heart worth the knowing, It is like the sun glowing, And hid in thy breast. Thy lover behold me; To my bosom I'll fold thee, For thou, love, thou'st just told me, So here thou may'st rest.

THE GIPSY LASS

Just like the berry brown is my bonny lassie O! And in the smoky camp lives my bonny lassie O! Where the scented woodbine weaves Round the white-thorn's glossy leaves: The sweetest maid on earth is my gipsy lassie O!

The brook it runs so clear by my bonny lassie O! And the blackbird singeth near my bonny lassie O! And there the wild briar rose Wrinkles the clear stream as it flows By the smoky camp of my bonny lassie O!

The groundlark singeth high o'er my bonny lassie O! The nightingale lives nigh my gipsy lassie O! They're with her all the year, By the brook that runs so clear, And there's none in all the world like my gipsy lassie O!

With a bosom white as snow is my gipsy lassie O! With a foot like to the roe is my bonny lassie O! Like the sweet birds she will sing, While echo it will ring: Sure there's none in the world like my bonny lassie O!

AT THE FOOT OF CLIFFORD HILL

Who loves the white-thorn tree, And the river running free? There a maiden stood with me In Summer weather. Near a cottage far from town, While the sun went brightly down O'er the meadows green and brown, We loved together.

How sweet her drapery flowed, While the moor-cock oddly crowed; I took the kiss which love bestowed, Under the white-thorn tree. Soft winds the water curled, The trees their branches furled; Sweetest nook in all the world Is where she stood with me.

Calm came the evening air, The sky was sweet and fair, In the river shadowed there, Close by the hawthorn tree. Round her neck I clasped my arms, And kissed her rosy charms; O'er the flood the hackle swarms, Where the maiden stood with me.

O there's something falls so dear On the music of the ear, Where the river runs so clear, And my lover met with me. At the foot of Clifford Hill Still I hear the clacking mill, And the river's running still Under the trysting tree.

TO MY WIFE--A VALENTINE

O once I had a true love, As blest as I could be: Patty was my turtle dove, And Patty she loved me. We walked the fields together, By roses and woodbine, In Summer's sunshine weather, And Patty she was mine.

We stopped to gather primroses, And violets white and blue, In pastures and green closes All glistening with the dew. We sat upon green mole-hills, Among the daisy flowers, To hear the small birds' merry trills, And share the sunny hours.

The blackbird on her grassy nest We would not scare away, Who nuzzling sat with brooding breast On her eggs for half the day. The chaffinch chirruped on the thorn, And a pretty nest had she; The magpie chattered all the morn From her perch upon the tree.

And I would go to Patty's cot, And Patty came to me; Each knew the other's very thought Under the hawthorn tree. And Patty had a kiss to give, And Patty had a smile, To bid me hope and bid me love, At every stopping stile.

We loved one Summer quite away, And when another came, The cowslip close and sunny day, It found us much the same. We both looked on the selfsame thing, Till both became as one; The birds did in the hedges sing, And happy time went on.

The brambles from the hedge advance, In love with Patty's eyes: On flowers, like ladies at a dance, Flew scores of butterflies. I claimed a kiss at every stile, And had her kind replies. The bees did round the woodbine toil, Where sweet the small wind sighs.

Then Patty was a slight young thing; Now she's long past her teens; And we've been married many springs, And mixed in many scenes. And I'll be true for Patty's sake, And she'll be true for mine; And I this little ballad make, To be her valentine.

MY TRUE LOVE IS A SAILOR

'T was somewhere in the April time, Not long before the May, A-sitting on a bank o' thyme I heard a maiden say, "My true love is a sailor, And ere he went away We spent a year together, And here my lover lay.

The gold furze was in blossom, So was the daisy too; The dew-drops on the little flowers Were emeralds in hue. On this same Summer morning, Though then the Sabbath day, He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, Beneath the whitethorn may.

He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, And said if they would keep They'd tell me of love's fantasies, For dews on them did weep. And I did weep at parting, Which lasted all the week; And when he turned for starting My full heart could not speak.

The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers Beneath the same haw-tree; I crop't them in morn's dewy hours, And here love's offerings be. O come to me my sailor beau And ease my aching breast; The storms shall cease to rave and blow, And here thy life find rest."

THE SAILOR'S RETURN

The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen, That tremble beneath the wild hum of the bee. The sunbeams they play on the brook's plashy ripples, Like millions of suns in each swirl looking on; The rush nods and bows till its tasseled head tipples Right into the wimpled flood, kissing the stones.

'T was down in the cow pasture, just at the gloaming, I met a young woman sweet tempered and mild, I said "Pretty maiden, say, where are you roving?" "I'm walking at even," she answered, and smiled. "Here my sweetheart and I gathered posies at even; It's eight years ago since they sent him to sea. Wild flowers hung with dew are like angels from heaven: They look up in my face and keep whispering to me.

They whisper the tales that were told by my true love; In the evening and morning they glisten with dew; They say (bonny blossoms) 'I'll ne'er get a new love; I love her; she's kindly.' I say, 'I love him too.'" The passing-by stranger's a stranger no longer; He kissed off the teardrop which fell from her e'e; With blue-jacket and trousers he is bigger and stronger; 'T is her own constant Willy returned from the sea.

BIRDS, WHY ARE YE SILENT?

Why are ye silent, Birds? Where do ye fly? Winter's not violent, With such a Spring sky. The wheatlands are green, snow and frost are away, Birds, why are ye silent on such a sweet day?

By the slated pig-stye The redbreast scarce whispers: Where last Autumn's leaves lie The hedge sparrow just lispers. And why are the chaffinch and bullfinch so still, While the sulphur primroses bedeck the wood hill?

The bright yellow-hammers Are strutting about, All still, and none stammers A single note out. From the hedge starts the blackbird, at brook side to drink: I thought he'd have whistled, but he only said "prink."

The tree-creeper hustles Up fir's rusty bark; All silent he bustles; We needn't say hark. There's no song in the forest, in field, or in wood, Yet the sun gilds the grass as though come in for good.

How bright the odd daisies Peep under the stubbs! How bright pilewort blazes Where ruddled sheep rubs The old willow trunk by the side of the brook, Where soon for blue violets the children will look!

By the cot green and mossy Feed sparrow and hen: On the ridge brown and glossy They cluck now and then. The wren cocks his tail o'er his back by the stye, Where his green bottle nest will be made by and bye.

Here's bunches of chickweed, With small starry flowers, Where red-caps oft pick seed In hungry Spring hours. And blue cap and black cap, in glossy Spring coat, Are a-peeping in buds without singing a note.

Why silent should birds be And sunshine so warm? Larks hide where the herds be By cottage and farm. If wild flowers were blooming and fully set in the Spring May-be all the birdies would cheerfully sing.

MEET ME TO-NIGHT

O meet me to-night by the bright starlight, Now the pleasant Spring's begun. My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade, In the crimson set of the sun, Meet me to-night.

The sun he goes down with a ruby crown To a gold and crimson bed; And the falling dew, from heaven so blue, Hangs pearls on Phoebe's head. Love, leave the town.

Come thou with me; 'neath the green-leaf tree We'll crop the bonny sweet brere. O come, dear maid, 'neath the hazlewood shade, For love invites us there. Come then with me.

The owl pops, scarce seen, from the ivy green, With his spectacles on I ween: See the moon's above and the stars twinkle, love; Better time was never seen. O come, my queen.

The fox he stops, and down he drops His head beneath the grass. The birds are gone; we're all alone; O come, my bonny lass. Come, O come!

YOUNG JENNY

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine, And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again Round the side of the tavern close by the sign. The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen, In curtains the richest that ever were seen.

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain, And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls; The moon with her horns is just peeping again, And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls; In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.

On a sweet eventide I walk by her side; In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes. Young Jenny is handsome without any pride; Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies. O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my Jane At the close of the day, down the mossy green lane.

We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile, While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky; And on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile, While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye. Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane; 'T is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane.

ADIEU!

"Adieu, my love, adieu! Be constant and be true As the daisies gemmed with dew, Bonny maid." The cows their thirst were slaking, Trees the playful winds were shaking; Sweet songs the birds were making In the shade.

The moss upon the tree Was as green as green could be, The clover on the lea Ruddy glowed; Leaves were silver with the dew, Where the tall sowthistles grew, And I bade the maid adieu On the road.

Then I took myself to sea, While the little chiming bee Sung his ballad on the lea, Humming sweet; And the red-winged butterfly Was sailing through the sky, Skimming up and bouncing by Near my feet.

I left the little birds, And sweet lowing of the herds, And couldn't find out words, Do you see, To say to them good bye, Where the yellow cups do lie; So heaving a deep sigh, Took to sea.

MY BONNY ALICE AND HER PITCHER

There's a bonny place in Scotland, Where a little spring is found; There Nature shows her honest face The whole year round. Where the whitethorn branches, full of may, Hung near the fountain's rim, Where comes sweet Alice every day And dips her pitcher in; A gallon pitcher without ear, She fills it with the water clear.

My bonny Alice she is fair; There's no such other to be found. Her rosy cheek and dark brown hair-- The fairest maid on Scotland's ground. And there the heather's pinhead flowers All blossom over bank and brae, While Alice passes by the bowers To fill her pitcher every day; The pitcher brown without an ear She dips into the fountain clear.

O Alice, bonny, sweet, and fair, With roses on her cheeks! The little birds come drinking there, The throstle almost speaks. He dips his wings and wimples makes Upon the fountain clear, Then vanishes among the brakes For ever singing near; While Alice, listening, stands to hear, And dips her pitcher without ear.

O Alice, bonny Alice, fair, Thy pleasant face I love; Thy red-rose cheek, thy dark brown hair, Thy soft eyes, like a dove. I see thee by the fountain stand, With the sweet smiling face; There's not a maid in all the land With such bewitching grace As Alice, who is drawing near, To dip the pitcher without ear.

THE MAIDEN I LOVE

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain Is the beauty that walks here--the maiden I love. Her black hair in tangles The rose briar mangles; Her lips and soft cheeks, Where love ever speaks: O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love.

It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles, I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye, In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles, Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by. Her hair it was coal black, Hung loose down her back; In her hand she held posies Of blooming primroses, The maiden who passed on the morning of love.

Coal black was her silk hair that shaded white shoulders; Ruby red were her ripe lips, her cheeks of soft hue; Her sweet smiles, enchanting the eyes of beholders, Thrilled my heart as she rambled the wild blossoms through. Like the pearl, her bright eye; In trembling delight I Kissed her cheek, like a rose In its gentlest repose. O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love!

TO JENNY LIND

I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away. Music, own sister to the soul. Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; And sweet her joys and sorrows roll When sings the Swedish Nightingale.

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I cannot touch the harp again; No chords will vibrate on the string; Like broken flowers upon the plain, My heart e'en withers while I sing. Aeolian harps have witching tones, On morning or the evening gale; No melody their music owns As sings the Swedish nightingale.

LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye.

THE FOREST MAID

O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; I courted her in happiness for two short years or more. And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill, For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er. O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee, And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird; And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me, And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.

O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild; There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair. While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild, And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there. She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn, She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere; Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn, And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.

O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild-- The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth, The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild. O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,-- And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade, But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.

BONNY MARY O!

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! The robin sings his song by the dairy O! Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O!

The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O! Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O! Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking tassels all of gold, Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O!

There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O! Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O! On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their shells, Hid in the mossy grass, bonny Mary O!

There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O! And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O! In the molehills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushes, To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!

Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evenings' mellow skies, And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O! And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O! When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O! And I'll kiss thee on the grass, my buxom, bonny lass, And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O!

LOVE'S EMBLEM

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace: How happy should I prove, Could I supply that envied place With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows, This pure, unsullied gem, Love's emblem in a full-blown rose, Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower For thy soft breast to wear; 'Twill blossom there its transient hour, A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows, As from a mirror clear, Making thyself a living rose, In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower To grace a maiden's brow, Emblem of love without its power-- A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing, May perish in an hour; 'T is but at best a fading thing, But thou'rt a living flower.

The roses steeped in morning dews Would every eye enthrall, But woman, she alone subdues; Her beauty conquers all.

THE MORNING WALK

The linnet sat upon its nest, By gales of morning softly prest, His green wing and his greener breast Were damp with dews of morning: The dog-rose near the oaktree grew, Blush'd swelling 'neath a veil of dew, A pink's nest to its prickles grew, Right early in the morning.

The sunshine glittered gold, the while A country maiden clomb the stile; Her straw hat couldn't hide the smile That blushed like early morning. The lark, with feathers all wet through, Looked up above the glassy dew, And to the neighbouring corn-field flew, Fanning the gales of morning.

In every bush was heard a song, On each grass blade, the whole way long, A silver shining drop there hung, The milky dew of morning. Where stepping-stones stride o'er the brook The rosy maid I overtook. How ruddy was her healthy look, So early in the morning!

I took her by the well-turned arm, And led her over field and farm, And kissed her tender cheek so warm, A rose in early morning. The spiders' lacework shone like glass, Tied up to flowers and cat-tail grass; The dew-drops bounced before the lass, Sprinkling the early morning.

Her dark curls fanned among the gales, The skylark whistled o'er the vales, I told her love's delightful tales Among the dews of morning. She crop't a flower, shook oft' the dew, And on her breast the wild rose grew; She blushed as fair, as lovely, too-- The living rose of morning.

TO MISS C.....

Thy glance is the brightest, Thy voice is the sweetest, Thy step is the lightest, Thy shape the completest: Thy waist I could span, dear, Thy neck's like a swan's, dear, And roses the sweetest On thy cheeks do appear.

The music of Spring Is the voice of my charmer. When the nightingales sing She's as sweet; who would harm her? Where the snowdrop or lily lies They show her face, but her eyes Are the dark clouds, yet warmer, From which the quick lightning flies O'er the face of my charmer.

Her faith is the snowdrop, So pure on its stem; And love in her bosom She wears as a gem; She is young as Spring flowers, And sweet as May showers, Swelling the clover buds, and bending the stem, She's the sweetest of blossoms, she love's favourite gem.

I PLUCK SUMMER BLOSSOMS

I pluck Summer blossoms, And think of rich bosoms-- The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won. The rich valley lilies, The wood daffodillies, Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.