The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 177 : I'd forget ye now this minute, If I only had a notion O' the way I should be

I'd forget ye now this minute, If I only had a notion O' the way I should begin it; But first an' last it isn't known The heap o' throuble's in it.

Meself began the night ye went An' hasn't done it yet; I'm nearly fit to give it up, For where's the use to fret?-- An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me Wid mindin' to forget.

Moira O'Neill [18

"ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE"

How often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside, Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne.

It must have been a merry mile, This summer stroll by hedge and stile, With sweet foreknowledge all the while How sure the pathway ran To dear delights of kiss and smile, Across the fields to Anne.

The silly sheep that graze to-day, I wot, they let him go his way, Nor once looked up, as who would say: "It is a seemly man."

For many lads went wooing aye Across the fields to Anne.

The oaks, they have a wiser look; Mayhap they whispered to the brook: "The world by him shall yet be shook, It is in nature's plan; Though now he fleets like any rook Across the fields to Anne."

And I am sure, that on some hour Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower, He stooped and broke a daisy-flower With heart of tiny span, And bore it as a lover's dower Across the fields to Anne.

While from her cottage garden-bed She plucked a jasmin's goodlihede, To scent his jerkin's brown instead; Now since that love began, What luckier swain than he who sped Across the fields to Anne?

The winding path whereon I pace, The hedgerows green, the summer's grace, Are still before me face to face; Methinks I almost can Turn port and join the singing race Across the fields to Anne.

Richard Burton [1861-

PAMELA IN TOWN

The fair Pamela came to town, To London town, in early summer; And up and down and round about The beaux discussed the bright newcomer, With "Gadzooks, sir," and "Ma'am, my duty,"

And "Odds my life, but 'tis a Beauty!"

To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam, Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry, With cheeks of cream and roses blent, With voice of lark and lip of cherry.

Then all the beaux vowed 'twas their duty To win and wear this country Beauty.

And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit, With whispers bold and eyes still bolder; The warmer grew his saucy flame, Cold grew the charming fair and colder.

'Twas "icy bosom"--"cruel beauty"-- "To love, sweet Mistress, 'tis a duty."

Then Jack Carew his arts essayed, With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping.

Good lack! his billets bound the curls That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping.

Next day these curls had richer beauty, So well Jack's fervor did its duty.

Then Cousin Will came up to view The way Pamela ruled the fas.h.i.+on; He watched the gallants crowd about, And flew into a rustic pa.s.sion,-- Left "Squire, his mark," on divers faces, And pinked Carew beneath his laces.

Alack! one night at Ranelagh The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blus.h.i.+ng; And all the mettled bloods looked round To see what caused that telltale flus.h.i.+ng.

Up stepped a grizzled Poet Fellow To dance with Pam a saltarello.

Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved, With hand on sword and cutting glances, That they would lead that Graybeard forth To livelier tunes and other dances.

But who that saw Pam's eyes a-s.h.i.+ning With love and joy would see her pining!

And--oons! Their wrath cooled as they looked,-- That Poet stared as fierce as any!

He was a mighty proper man, With blade on hip and inches many; The beaux all vowed it was their duty To toast some newer, softer Beauty.

Sweet Pam she bridled, blushed and smiled-- The wild thing loved and could but show it!

Mayhap some day you'll see in town Pamela and her grizzled Poet.

Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty, And won her faith, her love, her beauty.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

YES?

Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it-- The word spoken yesterday night?

Does that hour seem so sweet now between it And this has come day's sober light?

Have you woke from a moment of rapture To remember, regret, and repent, And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your Unthinking consent?

Who was he, last evening--this fellow Whose audacity lent him a charm?

Have you promised to wed Pulchinello?

For life taking Figaro's arm?

Will you have the Court fool of the papers, The clown in the journalists' ring, Who earns his scant bread by his capers, To be your heart's king?

When we met quite by chance at the theatre And I saw you home under the moon, I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her Tricks with my tongue quite so soon; That I should forget fate and fortune Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf-- That I'd have the calm nerve to importune You, sweet, for yourself.

It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious Effrontery of that request!

But you--you grew suddenly gracious, And hid your sweet face on my breast.

Why you did it I cannot conjecture; I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, Or perhaps--does the moonlight affect your Head often that way?

You're released! With some wooer replace me More worthy to be your life's light; From the tablet of memory efface me, If you don't mean your Yes of last night.

But--unless you are anxious to see me a Wreck of the pipe and the cup In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia-- Love, don't give me up!

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

THE PRIME OF LIFE

Just as I thought I was growing old, Ready to sit in my easy chair, To watch the world with a heart grown cold, And smile at a folly I would not share,

Rose came by with a smile for me, And I am thinking that forty year Isn't the age that it seems to be, When two pretty brown eyes are near.

Bless me! of life it is just the prime, A fact that I hope she will understand; And forty year is a perfect rhyme To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.