A CASUAL SONG

She sang of lovers met to play "Under the may bloom, under the may,"

But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of h.e.l.lbound men.

Roden Noel [1834-1894]

THE WAY OF IT

The wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives: Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.

The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid, Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid: He has said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard p.r.i.c.ked through, And the very same death he will die for you.

The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind; One to deceive, And one to believe-- That is the way of it, year to year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.

John Vance Cheney [1848-1922]

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY"

From "The Vicar of Wakefield"

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray,-- What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is--to die.

Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?"

"Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?"

"Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care-- What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?"

"Oh mother--oh mother--you never can know-- I loved him so!"

Louis Untermeyer [1885-

A VERY OLD SONG

"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, la.s.s."

"Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pa.s.s."

"What things on mould were best of all?

(Soft be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)"

"The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall.

Let me pa.s.s."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best?

(Sound be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)"

"Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest.

He hath an heron to his crest.

Let me pa.s.s."

"What leavest thou of fame or h.o.a.rd?

(Soft be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)"

"My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword.

Let me pa.s.s."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim?

(Sound be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)"

"The hair he kissed to strangle him.

Mother, let me pa.s.s."

William Laird [1888-

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]