The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 14

SONG

Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue?

Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew?

Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?

A thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne.

Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart.

Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me.

John Shaw [1559-1625]

CHLOE

It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay; One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe.

Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feathered people you might see, Perched all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe.

Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET"

As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet.

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.

It were more meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking s.h.i.+p frae wreck.

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE LOVER'S CHOICE

You, Damon, covet to possess The nymph that sparkles in her dress; Would rustling silks and hoops invade, And clasp an armful of brocade.

Such raise the price of your delight Who purchase both their red and white, And, pirate-like, surprise your heart With colors of adulterate art.

Me, Damon, me the maid enchants Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints; A modest blush adorns her face, Her air an unaffected grace.

No art she knows, or seeks to know; No charm to wealthy pride will owe; No gems, no gold she needs to wear; She s.h.i.+nes intrinsically fair.

Thomas Bedingfield [?--1613]

RONDEAU REDOUBLE

My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favor glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand.

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight.

Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favor glorifies the land.

What if the Winter chase the Summer bland!

The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright.

If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.

John Payne [1842-1916]

"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A La.s.sIE YET"

My love she's but a la.s.sie yet, A lightsome lovely la.s.sie yet; It scarce wad do To sit an' woo Down by the stream sae gla.s.sy yet.

But there's a braw time coming yet, When we may gang a-roaming yet; An' hint wi' glee O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet, She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; But just a jinking, Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty la.s.sie yet.

But O, her artless smile's mair sweet Than hinny or than marmalete; An' right or wrang, Ere it be lang, I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her, The very breeze that kisses her, The flowery beds On which she treads, Though wae for ane that misses her.

Then O, to meet my la.s.sie yet, Up in yon glen sae gra.s.sy yet; For all I see Are naught to me, Save her that's but a la.s.sie yet.

James Hogg [1770-1835]