The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 269 : If Colin's weel, and weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave; And gin I live

If Colin's weel, and weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest abune the lave.

And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'.

William Julius Mickle [1735-1788]

(or Jean Adam (?) [1710-1765])

JERRY AN' ME

No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.

They told him--Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall-- They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him.

Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed.

But he shall never know--my man-- The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a st.i.tch or fill A needleful o' thread.

G.o.d pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an'--me.

Hiram Rich [1832-1901]

"DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING"

O don't be sorrowful, darling!

And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day.

'Tis rainy weather, my darling; Time's waves they heavily run; But taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling, Our heads are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling, And our roses long ago; And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the silent night and the snow.

But G.o.d is G.o.d, my darling, Of the night as well as the day; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way.

A G.o.d of the night, my darling, Of the night of death so grim; The gate that leads out of life, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him.

Rembrandt Peale [1778-1860]

WINIFREDA

Away! let naught to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors With pompous t.i.tles grace our blood, We'll s.h.i.+ne in more substantial honors, And, to be n.o.ble, we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess; We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live life of reason, And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung!

To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.

Unknown

AN OLD MAN'S IDYL

By the waters of Life we sat together, Hand in hand, in the golden days Of the beautiful early summer weather, When skies were purple and breath was praise, When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran Through s.h.i.+mmer of flowers on gra.s.sy swards, And trees with voices aeolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together, I and my darling, unafraid; And lighter than any linnet's feather The burdens of being on us weighed; And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw Mantles of joy outlasting Time, And up from the rosy morrows grew A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.

In the gardens of Life we strayed together, And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac, and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; And under the trees the angels walked, And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Watching the waving harvests grow, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Of something higher than humanhood.

Oh, the riches Love doth inherit!

Oh, the alchemy which doth change Dross of body and dregs of spirit Into sanct.i.ties rare and strange!

My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, My darling's beautiful hair is gray; But our elixir and precious gold Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us, Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; But we have a secret which doth show us Wonderful rainbows in the rain.

And we hear the tread of the years move by, And the sun is setting behind the hills; But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what G.o.d wills.

So we sit by our household fires together, Dreaming the dreams of long ago; Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold,--'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait.

Richard Realf [1834-1878]