TWO LOVERS

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrashes sing.

O budding time!

O love's blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept.

O pure-eyed bride!

O tender pride!

Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked: These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent.

O solemn hour!

O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire.

O patient life!

O tender strife!

The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair.

O voyage fast!

O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor And made the s.p.a.ce between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!"

O memories!

O past that is!

George Eliot [1819-1880]

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

"Somewhere," he mused, "its dear enchantments wait, That land, so heavenly sweet; Yet all the paths we follow, soon or late, End in the desert's heat.

"And still it lures us to the eager quest, And calls us day by day"-- "But I," she said, her babe upon her breast "But I have found the way."

"Some time," he sighed, "when youth and joy are spent, Our feet the gates may win"-- "But I," she smiled, with eyes of deep content, "But I have entered in."

Emily Huntington Miller [1833-1913]

MY AIN WIFE

I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see; A bonnier yet I've never seen, A better canna be-- I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see!

O couthie is my ingle-cheek, An' cheerie is my Jean; I never see her angry look, Nor hear her word on ane.

She's gude wi' a' the neebors roun'

An' aye gude wi' me-- I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

An' O her looks sae kindlie, They melt my heart outright, When o'er the baby at her breast She hangs wi' fond delight; She looks intill its bonnie face, An' syne looks to me-- I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see.

Alexander Laing [1787-1857]

THE IRISH WIFE

I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life.

An outlaw--so I'm near her To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine, A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kathleen's face!

What comfort in a mine of gold, What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns; I knew my king abhorred her race; Who never bent before their clans Must bow before their ladies' grace.

Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife: Take knightly gear and n.o.ble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night; And twin-like truth and fondness lies Within her swelling bosom white.

My Irish wife has golden hair, Apollo's harp had once such strings, Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life: In death I would be near her, And rise beside my Irish wife.

Thomas D'Arcy McGee [1825-1868]

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

See is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And niest my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't, The warsle and the care o't: Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, And think my lot divine.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

LETTICE

I said to Lettice, our sister Lettice, While drooped and glistened her eyelash brown, "Your man's a poor man, a cold and dour man, There's many a better about our town."

She smiled securely--"He loves me purely: A true heart's safe, both in smile or frown; And nothing harms me while his love warms me, Whether the world go up or down."