Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 108

tint] lost.

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

590. Hame, Hame, Hame

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will graw in my ain countree.

O, there 's nocht now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave; That a' the n.o.ble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again an' fight for their ain countree.

The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save, The new gra.s.s is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 'I'll s.h.i.+ne on ye yet in your ain countree.'

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

591. The Spring of the Year

GONE were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow.

Cold 's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death 's at my e'en, Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father Or my mother so dear,-- I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year.

Leigh Hunt. 1784-1859

592. Jenny kiss'd Me

JENNY kiss'd me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kiss'd me.

Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k. 1785-1866

593. Love and Age

I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-b.a.l.l.s throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more.

Through groves and meads, o'er gra.s.s and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wander'd hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touch'd as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glimmering sphere.

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow; O, then I thought my heart was breaking!-- But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine.

My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression; But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fas.h.i.+on's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days.

No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christen'd; But that was twenty years ago.

Time pa.s.s'd. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flower'd meads to play.

In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure; And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impa.s.sion'd blindness Has pa.s.s'd away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night.

The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k. 1785-1866

594. The Grave of Love

I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.

I press'd them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.

Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k. 1785-1866

595. Three Men of Gotham

SEAMEN three! What men be ye?

Gotham's three wise men we be.

Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth s.h.i.+ne.

And our ballast is old wine.-- And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.

Here on board we will thee lift.

No: I may not enter there.

Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be.-- In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charmed bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?

Water may not pa.s.s the brim.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth s.h.i.+ne.

And our ballast is old wine.-- And your ballast is old wine.