Chapter 14

She said the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain; "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This self-same winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane) Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?"

Charles Sibley [ ? ]

KITTY NEIL

"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning; Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree, Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil, - Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

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? Young 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!"

John Francis Waller [1810-1894]

"THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE"

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine; My ribbins'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t'other day, - Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well, - An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May; - Bi th' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en; My cheek went as red as a rose; - There's never a mortal can tell Heaw happy aw felt; for, thea knows, One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, - To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, - For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet; But Mally, thae knows very weel, - Though it isn't a thing one should own, - Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind; What would to do iv't wur thee? "Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he'd be; For Jamie's as gradely a lad As ever stepped eawt into th' sun; - Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon, - Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late; Aw'm a' ov a tremble to th' heel, - Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do? - "Be off, lass, - thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

Edwin Waugh [1817-1890]

THE OULD PLAID SHAWL

Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall, A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; And oh! her face; and oh! her grace, the soul of saint would charm: Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her - "God save you, miss," says I; "God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me by; Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight; But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, "The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl."

I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall, Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small - You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere, For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

LITTLE MARY CASSIDY

Oh, 'tis little Mary Cassidy's the cause of all my misery, And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be; Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me. Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and town - Fairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain; Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain.

'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a sight of her, And heard her sing the "Droighnean Donn," till tears came in my eyes, And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her; The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise. Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind; Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy, 'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find.

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye? Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon go to the right-about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by. Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, Ship them all across the say, or to the frozen zone: Lave me an orphan bare - but lave me Mary Cassidy, I never would feel lonesome with the two of us alone.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

THE ROAD

"Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all? Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen? Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it, You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it, Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it -" "Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean!"

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul? An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows, An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, 'Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye -" "What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin', ses I, "wid the shawl, An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all? The road by the mountain's a long one, depend Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end; Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it, Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it, - Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it -" "Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"

That's stepped wid a friend? Who did Bridgy intend? Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

TWICKENHAM FERRY

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's who's for the ferry?" (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the ferry," (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And it's late as it is and I haven't a penny - Oh! how can I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry - It's sure but you're welcome to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho!"- You're too late for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady; It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. "Ahoy! and O-ho!" you may call as you will; The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill; And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town.

Theophile Marzials [1850-

THE HUMOR OF LOVE

SONG

I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie, To find it were in vain, For thou hast a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love, where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe! I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.

John Suckling [1609-1642]

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger, though, than thine) Walked on before the rest; Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The king (God bless him!) 'twould undo him Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave (for all his haste), He did not so much wish all past, (Perchance) as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she, Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must) It looked like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison; Who sees them is undone; For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

Passion o' me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride: The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained-band, Presented and away.

When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be intreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's come thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, (And who could help it, Dick?)

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance; Then dance again, and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wished her place, And ev'ry man wished his.

By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

John Suckling [1609-1642]

TO CHLOE JEALOUS

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled: Prithee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says), Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know, Child) the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way: They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war; And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

JACK AND JOAN

Jack and Joan they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-days' work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out, at a country feast, Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy. All their pleasure is content; And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows, And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tuttyes make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break; And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the home-spun gray, And revel in your rich array: Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

PHILLIS AND CORYDON

Phillis kept sheep along the western plains, And Corydon did feed his flocks hard by: This shepherd was the flower of all the swains That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly; And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.

A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire, Was lovely Phillis, - Corydon swore so; Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire, He left his lambs, and he began to woo; He looked, he sighed, he courted with a kiss, No better could the silly swad than this.

He little knew to paint a tale of love, Shepherds can fancy, but they cannot say: Phillis 'gan smile, and wily thought to prove What uncouth grief poor Corydon did pay; She asked him how his flocks or he did fare, Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care.

The shepherd blushed when Phillis questioned so, And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks: "'Tis love, fair Phillis, breedeth all this woe, My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks; Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire; Fair Phillis kindleth Corydon's desire."

"Can shepherds love?" said Phillis to the swain. "Such saints as Phillis," Corydon replied. "Men when they lust can many fancies feign," Said Phillis. This not Corydon denied, That lust had lies; "But love," quoth he, "says truth: Thy shepherd loves, then, Phillis, what ensu'th?"

Phillis was won, she blushed and hung her head; The swain stepped to, and cheered her with a kiss: With faith, with troth, they struck the matter dead; So used they when men thought not amiss: Thus love begun and ended both in one; Phillis was loved, and she liked Corydon.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day - And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'll marry Sally; O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed - But not in our alley!

Henry Carey [? -1743]

THE COUNTRY WEDDING

Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain; Why so much in haste? - now the month it was May - May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way? Then straight to this question the nymph did reply, With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye, I came from the village, and homeward I go, And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know?

I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss, If I tell you my reason for asking you this; I would see you safe home - (now the swain was in love!) Of such a companion if you would approve. Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own; But I see no great danger in going alone; Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free For one as another, for you as for me.

No danger in going alone, it is true, But yet a companion is pleasanter, too; And if you could like - (now the swain he took heart) - Such a sweetheart as me, why we never would part. O that's a long word, said the shepherdess then, I've often heard say there's no minding you men. You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true! Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do.

O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied, To prove what I say, I will make you my bride. To-morrow the parson - (well-said, little swain!) - Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain. Then what the nymph answered to this isn't said, The very next morn, to be sure, they were wed. Sing hey-diddle, - ho-diddle, - hey-diddle-down, - Now when shall we see such a wedding in town?

Unknown

"O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE"

O merry may the maid be That marries wi' the miller, For, foul day and fair day, He's aye bringing till her, - Has aye a penny in his purse For dinner or for supper; And, gin she please, a good fat cheese And lumps of yellow butter.

When Jamie first did woo me, I speired what was his calling; "Fair maid," says he, "O come and see, Ye're welcome to my dwalling." Though I was shy, yet could I spy The truth o' what he told me, And that his house was warm and couth, And room in it to hold me.

Behind the door a bag o' meal, And in the kist was plenty O' guid hard cakes his mither bakes, And bannocks werena scanty. A guid fat sow, a sleeky cow Was standing in the byre, Whilst lazy puss with mealy mouse Was playing at the fire.

"Guid signs are these," my mither says, And bids me tak' the miller; For, fair day and foul day, He's aye bringing till her; For meal and maut she doesna want, Nor anything that's dainty; And now and then a kecking hen, To lay her eggs in plenty.

In winter, when the wind and rain Blaws o'er the house and byre, He sits beside a clean hearth-stane, Before a rousing fire. With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, Which rows him o'er fu' nappy: - Wha'd be a king - a petty thing, When a miller lives so happy?

John Clerk [1684-1755]

THE LASS O' GOWRIE

'Twas on a simmer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed doun, A lassie wi' a braw new goun Cam' owre the hills to Gowrie. The rosebud washed in simmer's shower Bloomed fresh within the sunny bower; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie.

To see her cousin she cam' there; And oh! the scene was passing fair, For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into gray, The mavis and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.

O lang the lassie I had wooed, And truth and constancy had vowed, But could nae speed wi' her I lo'ed Until she saw fair Gowrie. I pointed to my faither's ha' - Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae loun that there nae blast could blaw: - Wad she no bide in Gowrie?

Her faither was baith glad and wae; Her mither she wad naething say; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet;

The blush and tear were on her cheek; She naething said, and hung her head; - But now she's Leddy Gowrie.

Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]

THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID

Soon as the day begins to waste, Straight to the well-known door I haste, And rapping there, I'm forced to stay While Molly hides her work with care, Adjusts her tucker and her hair, And nimble Becky scours away.