Song — Duet — Between the Bard and an Old Woman Critic
The Bard
A H me! but I'm sorry,
And with worry I'm sore,
I am powerless to state
What my fate is each hour.
What but my heart's anguish
Makes me languish such wise?
With the love that I've loved her,
Ne'er above it I'll rise.
The Crone
Silence, rascal, deal fairly,
Untruths spare to exhale,
I will yet trust thee barely
That there's no gild-thy-tale.
If she is so pretty,
And so witty and more
That I can't put thee down,
Her I'll crown o'er five score.
If thy love is a princess,
" Hear! hear! and bravo. "
Thine honour none minces,
" Your servant, my Lord. "
If a lass won't suffice thee,
But a nice maid in satin,
Till I witness thy wedding,
Not a word more I'll put in.
The Bard
My love is the bravest
In Europe, a lass
Who is brighter and purer
Than down in the grass.
Methinks sweeter than harp
The bright talk she'll contrive,
So much do I love her
I cannot survive.
The Crone
Thou spoke more than is fair
And didst not spare untruth,
And so many bright faces
In all places forsooth.
If down is her likeness
I like less its worth,
If her love will remove thee —
Good luck waft thee from earth.
If thou think than harp sweeter
The music she'll raise,
'Tis queer that we never
Heard tell of her praise;
Unless her lay be lowly,
Sung in great secrecy,
Where the heart would stir only
Were there with her but three.
The Bard
My love is the peacock,
She hundreds excelling,
Bright face, slender eyebrows,
Blue eyes, mild and thrilling,
Tender lips like the cherry
Whence comes welcome serene,
Cheek red like the rowan,
That's the look of my quean.
The Crone
Save for feathers the peacock
Would have no praise or blame,
Good or bad is not in it,
Unless the eye it acclaim;
Both its claws and its feet
Put its radiance to shame,
Though there is show in its garb
'Tis no bird worth the name.
A bright face, slender eyebrows,
Blue eye, mild and steadfast,
Though there's joy a while in them,
But a short space they'll last;
Lips crimson-coloured hedge
A scathing tongue, a sharp pest,
And they, like the cheek-dimples,
Last no more than the rest.
A H me! but I'm sorry,
And with worry I'm sore,
I am powerless to state
What my fate is each hour.
What but my heart's anguish
Makes me languish such wise?
With the love that I've loved her,
Ne'er above it I'll rise.
The Crone
Silence, rascal, deal fairly,
Untruths spare to exhale,
I will yet trust thee barely
That there's no gild-thy-tale.
If she is so pretty,
And so witty and more
That I can't put thee down,
Her I'll crown o'er five score.
If thy love is a princess,
" Hear! hear! and bravo. "
Thine honour none minces,
" Your servant, my Lord. "
If a lass won't suffice thee,
But a nice maid in satin,
Till I witness thy wedding,
Not a word more I'll put in.
The Bard
My love is the bravest
In Europe, a lass
Who is brighter and purer
Than down in the grass.
Methinks sweeter than harp
The bright talk she'll contrive,
So much do I love her
I cannot survive.
The Crone
Thou spoke more than is fair
And didst not spare untruth,
And so many bright faces
In all places forsooth.
If down is her likeness
I like less its worth,
If her love will remove thee —
Good luck waft thee from earth.
If thou think than harp sweeter
The music she'll raise,
'Tis queer that we never
Heard tell of her praise;
Unless her lay be lowly,
Sung in great secrecy,
Where the heart would stir only
Were there with her but three.
The Bard
My love is the peacock,
She hundreds excelling,
Bright face, slender eyebrows,
Blue eyes, mild and thrilling,
Tender lips like the cherry
Whence comes welcome serene,
Cheek red like the rowan,
That's the look of my quean.
The Crone
Save for feathers the peacock
Would have no praise or blame,
Good or bad is not in it,
Unless the eye it acclaim;
Both its claws and its feet
Put its radiance to shame,
Though there is show in its garb
'Tis no bird worth the name.
A bright face, slender eyebrows,
Blue eye, mild and steadfast,
Though there's joy a while in them,
But a short space they'll last;
Lips crimson-coloured hedge
A scathing tongue, a sharp pest,
And they, like the cheek-dimples,
Last no more than the rest.
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