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.