The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 163 : Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]"WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW"I know a girl wit

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW"

I know a girl with teeth of pearl, And shoulders white as snow; She lives,--ah well, I must not tell,-- Wouldn't you like to know?

Her sunny hair is wondrous fair, And wavy in its flow; Who made it less One little tress,-- Wouldn't you like to know?

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 G.o.dfrey 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 pa.s.s, 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'

G.o.d makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moons.h.i.+ne 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 blus.h.i.+n' 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 sc.r.a.per,-- 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.