Chapter 13

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.

Not the lines around my eye, Deepening as the years go by; Not white hairs that strew my head, Nor my less elastic tread;

Cares I find, nor joys I miss, Make me feel my years like this: - Sweet sixteen is shy and cold, Calls me "sir," and thinks me old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

TIME'S REVENGE

When I was ten and she fifteen - Ah, me! how fair I thought her. She treated with disdainful mien The homage that I brought her, And, in a patronizing way, Would of my shy advances say: "It's really quite absurd, you see; He's very much too young for me."

I'm twenty now, she twenty-five - Well, well! how old she's growing. I fancy that my suit might thrive If pressed again; but, owing To great discrepancy in age, Her marked attentions don't engage My young affections, for, you see, She's really quite too old for me.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

IN EXPLANATION

Her lips were so near That - what else could I do? You'll be angry, I fear. But her lips were so near - Well, I can't make it clear, Or explain it to you. But - her lips were so near That - what else could I do?

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

OMNIA VINCIT

Long from the lists of love I stood aloof My heart was steeled and I was beauty-proof; Yet I, unscathed in many a peril past, Lo! here am I defeated at the last.

My practice was, in easy-chair reclined, Superior-wise to speak of womankind, Waving away the worn-out creed of love To join the smoke that wreathed itself above.

Love, I said in my wisdom, Love is dead, For all his fabled triumphs - and instead We find a calm affectionate respect, Doled forth by Intellect to Intellect.

Yet when Love, taking vengeance, smote me sore, My Siren called me from no classic shore; It was no Girton trumpet that laid low The walls of this Platonic Jericho.

For when my peace of mind at length was stole, I thought no whit of Intellect or Soul, Nay! I was cast in pitiful distress By brown eyes wide with truth and tenderness.

Alfred Cochrane [1865-

A PASTORAL

Along the lane beside the mead Where cowslip-gold is in the grass I matched the milkmaid's easy speed, A tall and springing country lass: But though she had a merry plan To shield her from my soft replies, Love played at Catch-me-if-you-Can In Mary's eyes.

A mile or twain from Varley bridge I plucked a dock-leaf for a fan, And drove away the constant midge, And cooled her forehead's strip of tan. But though the maiden would not spare My hand her pretty finger-tips, Love played at Kiss-me-if-you-Dare On Mary's lips.

Since time was short and blood was bold, I drew me closer to her side, And watched her freckles change from gold To pink beneath a blushing tide. But though she turned her face away, How much her panting heart confessed! Love played at Find-me-for-you-May In Mary's breast.

Norman Gale [1862-

A ROSE

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting; Sweetest flower that blows, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose. In the love garden close, With the swift blushes starting, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows - Since I will not discover, And love is that close, If she kissed it, who knows? Or if not the red rose Perhaps then the lover! If she kissed it, who knows, Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing! More I will not disclose, Yet at least with the rose Went whose kiss no one knows, - Since I'm only declaring, "Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing."

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]

"WOOED AND MARRIED AND A'"

The bride cam' out o' the byre, And oh, as she dighted her cheeks: "Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And ha'e neither blankets nor sheets; Ha'e neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado!" Wooed and married, and a', Married and wooed and a'! And was she nae very weel aff, That was wooed and married and a'?

Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: "Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn - What wad ye be at, ye jaud?"

Out spake the bride's mither: "What deil needs a' this pride? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins, Mair than ane or twa."

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: "Poor Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy And no for a puir man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak' ane i' my life."

Out spake the bride's sister, As she cam' in frae the byre: "O gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire; But we puir folk maun live single, And do the best we can; I dinna ken what I should want, If I could get but a man!"

Alexander Ross [1699-1784]

"OWRE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER"

Comin' though the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Owre the muir amang the heather, Owre the muir amang the heather; There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Says I, My dear, where is thy hame, - In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? She says, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather.

We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather: She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather.

While thus we lay, she sung a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther; And aye the burden of the sang Was, Owre the muir amang the heather.

She charmed my heart, and aye sinsyne I couldna think on ony ither: By sea and sky! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather.

Jean Glover [1758-1801]

MARRIAGE AND THE CARE O'T

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I've wooed ye mair than ha' a year, An' if ye'd wed me ne'er cou'd speer, Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I'm wi't: Will ye be my ha'f-marrow, sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be't An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die For me, I'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel for ever! - aff I hie; - Sae took his leave without a sigh; Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, I'll try The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' ga'e her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthened out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blithe was she wi' Rab to cleek, In marriage, wi' the care o't.

Robert Lochore [1762-1852]

THE WOMEN FOLK

O sairly may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They ha'e plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things! I lo'e them still. O, the women folk! O, the women folk, But they ha'e been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!

I ha'e thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo'ed them better than mysel', I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. That they ha'e gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree! An' smiles as saft as the young rose-bud, An' e'en sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the clud - But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

"LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS"

I lately lived in quiet ease, An' never wished 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 trepanned me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear Torment me late an' early, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness!

To tell my feats this single week Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart out owre 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!

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rase to theek the stable, O! I cuist my coat, an' plied away As 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' looked about, Gudefaith, it was the byre, O!

Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love Than 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!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

"BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK"

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it - So mind you that - before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae - I dinna care - But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kissed, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten - before folk.

Alexander Rodger [1784-1846]

RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, He was bold as a hawk, - she as soft as the dawn; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear; So, jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough, Sure I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips; - don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir: you'll hug me no more; That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]

ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are deceivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go - If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say, 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel? Sweet Mary," says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!" "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see; Since my parents are both so contrary - You'd better ask me!"

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.

"Oh! what shall I do now - 'twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy! Oh! Barney MacCleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season - I can't tell the reason - Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Charles Dawson Shanly [1811-1875]

THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies - And the sweetest I maintain, Was Caddie, That I took un'neath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain.