Wooing Song
'TWAS at the marge of summertide, ere mowers made the hay,
When the sweet breath of eglantine blew up the meadow-way;
The south-wind to its tender lute made many a mellow vow;
“It's time to be a-wooing!” sang the red-bird on the bough;
“Sooth, if you wish to woo her, why, you'd better woo her now!”
Ripe red the wilding strawberries were growing in the grass;
“Oh, bending daisy blooms,” said I, “and did you see her pass?”
They nodded and they nodded, and they nodded once again,
And there she was a-coming at the turning of the lane;
My heart was fleeter than my feet, although my feet were fain.
Her smile was like the break o' dawn—(I'll give you just a clue!)
Her eyes, her hair, her cheeks,—but there, no simile will do!
I clasped her willing hands in mine—(what little hands she had!)
The red-bird kept a-chorusing; the very trees were, glad;
Aye, all the world was gay that day around one lass and lad!
When the sweet breath of eglantine blew up the meadow-way;
The south-wind to its tender lute made many a mellow vow;
“It's time to be a-wooing!” sang the red-bird on the bough;
“Sooth, if you wish to woo her, why, you'd better woo her now!”
Ripe red the wilding strawberries were growing in the grass;
“Oh, bending daisy blooms,” said I, “and did you see her pass?”
They nodded and they nodded, and they nodded once again,
And there she was a-coming at the turning of the lane;
My heart was fleeter than my feet, although my feet were fain.
Her smile was like the break o' dawn—(I'll give you just a clue!)
Her eyes, her hair, her cheeks,—but there, no simile will do!
I clasped her willing hands in mine—(what little hands she had!)
The red-bird kept a-chorusing; the very trees were, glad;
Aye, all the world was gay that day around one lass and lad!
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