IF doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I’ll mount my steed;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.
I’ll wear thy colors in my cap,
Thy picture in my heart;
And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart.
Then tell me how to woo thee, love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I’ll take,
Though ne’er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eye,
I’ll dight me in array;
I’ll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I’ll strive to catch;
Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysel’—
That voice that none can match.
Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc.
But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing—
Oh, tell me how to woo!
Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc.
Robert Graham.

SONG FROM “THE DUENNA”

I  NE’ER could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne’er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?
I will own thy color true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

THE RACES
A BALLAD

O  GEORGE! I’ve been, I’ll tell you where,
But first prepare yourself for raptures;
To paint this charming heavenly fair,
And paint her well, would ask whole chapters.
Fine creatures I’ve viewed many a one,
With lovely shapes and angel faces,
But I have seen them all outdone
By this sweet maid, at —— Races.
Lords, Commoners, alike she rules,
Takes all who view her by surprise,
Makes e’en the wisest look like fools,
Nay more, makes fox-hunters look wise.
Her shape—’tis elegance and ease,
Unspoiled by art or modern dress,
But gently tapering by degrees,
And finely, “beautifully less.”
Her foot—it was so wondrous small,
So thin, so round, so slim, so neat,
The buckle fairly hid it all,
And seemed to sink it with the weight.
And just above the spangled shoe,
Where many an eye did often glance,
Sweetly retiring from the view,
And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;
Two slender ankles peeping out,
Stood like Love’s heralds, to declare,
That all within the petticoat
Was firm and full, and “round, and fair.”
And then she dances—better far
Than heart can think, or tongue can tell,
Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar,
E’er moved so graceful and so well.
So easy glide her beauteous limbs,
True as the echo to the sound,
She seems, as through the dance she skims,
To tread on air, and scorn the ground.
And there is lightning in her eye,
One glance alone might well inspire
The clay-cold breast of Apathy,
Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.
And zephyr on her lovely lips
Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses,
And there his heavenly nectar sips,
And there in breathing sweet reposes.
And there’s such music when she speaks,
You may believe me when I tell ye,
I’d rather hear her than the squeaks
Or far famed squalls of Gabrielli.
And sparkling wit and steady sense,
In that fair form with beauty vie,
But tinged with virgin diffidence,
And the soft blush of modesty.
Had I the treasures of the world,
All the sun views or the seas borrow
(Else may I to the devil be hurled),
I’d lay them at her feet to-morrow.
But as we Bards reap only Bays,
Nor much of that, though nought grows on it,
I’ll beat my brains to sound her praise,
And hammer them into a sonnet.
And if she deign one charming smile
The blest reward of all my labours,
I’ll never grudge my pains or toil,
But pity the dull squires, my neighbours.
George Ellis.

TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON

TOO late I stayed, forgive the crime,—
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers!
What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?
Ah! who to sober measurement
Time’s happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?
Hon. William R. Spencer.

TO MRS. LEIGH UPON HER WEDDING-DAY

WHILE all to this auspicious day
Well pleased their heartfelt homage pay
And sweetly smile and softly say
A hundred civic speeches;
My Muse shall strike her tuneful strings,
Nor scorn the gift her duty brings,
Tho’ humble be the theme she sings,—
A pair of shooting breeches.
Soon shall the tailor’s subtle art
Have made them tight, and spruce, and smart,
And fastened well in every part
With twenty thousand stitches;
Mark then the moral of my song,
Oh, may your lives but prove as strong,
And wear as well, and last as long,
As these, my shooting breeches.
And when, to ease the load of life,
Of private care, and public strife,
My lot shall give to me a wife,
I ask not rank or riches;
For worth like thine alone I pray,
Temper like thine serene and gay,
And formed like thee to give away,
Not wear herself, the breeches.
George Canning.

NAMES

I  ASKED my fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay;
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece
Lalage, Neæra, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa or Lucrece.
“Ah!” replied my gentle fair,
“Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose you whatever suits the line;
Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me thine.”
Samuel T. Coleridge.

THE EXCHANGE

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,—
I in my arms the maiden clasping:
I could not tell the reason why,
But oh! I trembled like an aspen.
Her father’s love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
Samuel T. Coleridge.

DEFIANCE

CATCH her and hold her if you can . . .
Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread
In threatening guise above your head.
Ah! why did you not start before
She reached the porch and closed the door?
Simpleton! will you never learn
That girls and time will not return;
Of each you should have made the most;
Once gone, they are forever lost.
In vain your knuckles knock your brow,
In vain will you remember how
Like a slim brook the gamesome maid
Sparkled, and ran into the shade.
Walter Savage Landor.

HER LIPS

OFTEN I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.
When she kiss’d me once in play,
Rubies were less bright than they,
And less bright were those that shone
In the palace of the Sun.
Will they be as bright again?
Not if kiss’d by other men.
Walter Savage Landor.

COMMINATION

TAKING my walk the other day,
I saw a little girl at play,
So pretty, ’twould not be amiss,
Thought I, to venture on a kiss.
Fiercely the little girl began—
“I wonder at you, nasty man!”
And all four fingers were applied,
And crimson pinafore beside,
To wipe what venom might remain,—
“Do if you dare the like again;
I have a mind to teach you better,”
And I too had a mind to let her.
Walter Savage Landor.

MARGARET AND DORA

MARGARET’S beauteous—Grecian arts
Ne’er drew form completer,
Yet why, in my heart of hearts,
Hold I Dora’s sweeter?
Dora’s eyes of heavenly blue
Pass all paintings’ reach,
Ringdove’s notes are discord to
The music of her speech.
Artists Margaret’s smile receive,
And on canvas show it;
But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.
Thomas Campbell.

A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

THERE’S a certain young lady,
Who’s just in her heyday,
And full of all mischief, I ween;
So teasing! so pleasing!
Capricious! delicious!
And you know very well whom I mean.
With an eye dark as night,
Yet than noonday more bright,
Was ever a black eye so keen?
It can thrill with a glance,
With a beam can entrance,
And you know very well whom I mean.
With a stately step—such as
You’d expect in a duchess—
And a brow might distinguish a queen,
With a mighty proud air,
That says “touch me who dare,”
And you know very well whom I mean.
With a toss of the head
That strikes one quite dead,
But a smile to revive one again;
That toss so appalling!
That smile so enthralling!
And you know very well whom I mean.
Confound her! devil take her!—
A cruel heart-breaker—
But hold! see that smile so serene.
God love her! God bless her!
May nothing distress her!
You know very well whom I mean.
Heaven help the adorer
Who happens to bore her,
The lover who wakens her spleen;
But too blest for a sinner
Is he who shall win her,
And you know very well whom I mean.
Washington Irving.

SONG

WHO has robbed the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who from India’s distant wave
For thee those pearly treasures drew?
Who from yonder orient sky
Stole the morning of thine eye?
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne’er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart.
Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh, take that heart from me.
John Shaw.

THE TIME I’VE LOST IN WOOING

THE time I’ve lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman’s eyes,
Has been my heart’s undoing.
Tho’ wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn’d the lore she brought me,
My only books
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the sprite
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that’s haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But when the spell was on me,
If once their ray
Was turn’d away,
O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No—vain, alas! th’ endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever;—
Poor Wisdom’s chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
Thomas Moore.

WHEN I LOVED YOU

WHEN I loved you, I can’t but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it!
Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you is pleasant enough,
And oh! ’tis delicious to hate you!
Thomas Moore.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY

REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say
Went on a party of pleasure one day:
Folly play’d
Around the maid,
The bells of his cap rang merrily out;
While Reason took
To his sermon-book—
O! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,
Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.
Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turn’d for a moment to Reason’s dull page,
Till Folly said,
“Look here, sweet maid!”—
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself,
While Reason read
His leaves of lead,
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
Then Reason grew jealous of Folly’s gay cap;
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap—
“There it is,”
Quoth Folly, “old quiz!”
(Folly was always good-natured, ’tis said.)
“Under the sun
There’s no such fun,
As Reason with my cap and bells on his head,
Reason with my cap and bells on his head!”
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before:
While Folly took
Old Reason’s book,
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton,
That Beauty vow’d
(Tho’ not aloud)
She liked him still better in that than his own,
Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own.
Thomas Moore.

TIRESOME SPRING!

I  HAVE watched her at the window
Through long days of snow and wind,
Till I learnt to love the shadow
That would flit across her blind.
’Twixt the lime-tree’s leafless branches
In the dusk my eyes I’d strain:
Now the boughs are thick with foliage,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!
Now, behind that screen of verdure
Is my angel lost to view;
And no longer for the robins
Will her white hands bread-crumbs strew.
Never in the frosts of winter,
Did those robins beg in vain;
Now, alas! the snow has melted,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!
’Tis kind winter that I wish for;—
How I long to hear the hail
Rattling on deserted pavements,
Dancing in the stormy gale!
For I then could see her windows,
Watch my darling through each pane
Now the lime-trees are in blossom,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!
Béranger.

ROSETTE

YES! I know you’re very fair;
And the rose-bloom of your cheek,
And the gold-crown of your hair,
Seem of tender love to speak.
But to me they speak in vain,
I am growing old, my pet—
Ah, if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
In your carriage every day
I can see you bow and smile;
Lovers your least word obey,
Mistress you of every wile.
She was poor, and went on foot,
Badly drest, you know,—and yet,—
Ah! if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
You are clever, and well known
For your wit so quick and free;—
Now, Rosette, I blush to own,
Scarcely knew her A B C;
But she had a potent charm
In my youth:—ah, vain regret!
If I could but love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
Béranger.

SHE IS SO PRETTY

SHE is so pretty, the girl I love,
Her eyes are tender and deep and blue
As the summer night in the skies above,
As violets seen through a mist of dew.
How can I hope, then, her heart to gain?
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so fair to see!
Scarcely she’s counted her nineteenth spring,
Fresh, and blooming, and young,—ah me!
Why do I thus her praises sing?
Surely from me ’tis a senseless strain,
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so sweet and dear,
There’s many a lover who loves her well;
I may not hope, I can only fear,
Yet shall I venture my love to tell? . . .
Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain—
Though she’s so pretty, and I am so plain.
Béranger.

RONDEAU

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me!
Leigh Hunt.

STOLEN FRUIT

WE the fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
Leigh Hunt (from the Italian).

LOVE AND AGE

I  PLAY’D with you ’mid cowslips blowing
When I was six and you were four:
When garlands weaving, flower balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Thro’ groves and meads, o’er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wander’d hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly—
How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
O, then, I thought my heart was breaking,—
But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;—
But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone’s wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christen’d:—
But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married
And I now am a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I’ve carried
Among the wild-flower’d meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket’s ample measure,—
And that is not ten years ago.
But tho’ first love’s impassion’d blindness
Has pass’d away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
Thomas L. Peacock.

CLUBS

IF any man loves comfort and has little cash to buy it, he
Should get into a crowded club—a most select society,—
While solitude and mutton-cutlets serve infelix uxor, he
May have his club, like Hercules, and revel there in luxury.
Yes, clubs knock taverns on the head. E’en Hatchett’s can’t demolish ’em;
Joy grieves to see their magnitude, and Long longs to abolish ’em.
The Inns are out. Hotels for single men scarce keep alive on it,
While none but houses that are in the family way thrive on it.
There’s first the Athenæum Club; so wise, there’s not a man of it
That has not sense enough for six—in fact, that is the plan of it.
The very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical,
And always place the knives and forks in order mathematical.
Then opposite the mental club you’ll find the regimental one—
A meeting made of men of war, and yet a very gentle one.
If uniform good living please your palate, here’s excess of it.
Especially at private dinners, when they make a mess of it.
E’en Isis has a house in town and Cam abandons her city;
The master now hangs out at the United University.
In common room she gave a rout (a novel freak to hit upon),
Where Masters gave the Mistresses of Arts no chairs to sit upon.
The Union Club is quite superb; its best apartment daily is
The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, cum multis aliis.
At half-past six the joint concern for eighteen pence is given you,
Half-pints of port are sent in ketchup-bottles to enliven you.
The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosily,
And dream they climb the highest Alps or rove the plains of Moselai.
The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of it,
And now they are club-footed, and they sit and look at charts of it.
The Orientals, homeward-bound, now seek their club much sallower,
And while they eat green fat they find their own fat growing yellower.
Their soup is made more savoury, till bile to shadows dwindles ’em,
And neither Moore nor Savory with seidlitz draughts rekindles ’em.
Then there are clubs where persons parliamentary preponderate,
And clubs for men upon the turf (I wonder they ar’n’t under it);
Clubs where the winning ways of sharper folks pervert the use of clubs,
Where knaves will make subscribers cry, “Egad! this is the deuce of clubs!”
For country squires the only club in London now is Boodle’s, sirs,
The Crockford Club for playful men, the Alfred Club for noodles, sirs:
These are the stages which all men propose to play their parts upon,
For Clubs are what the Londoners have clearly set their hearts upon.
Theodore Hook.

TO ANNE

HOW many kisses do I ask?
Now you set me to my task.
First, sweet Anne, will you tell me
How many waves are in the sea?
How many stars are in the sky?
How many lovers you make sigh?
How many sands are on the shore?
I shall want just one kiss more.
William Maxwell.

SONG