You were so pretty and so blue
The day that you were given me,
By Mariana, fair and true.
Angry and jealous had I been
That fragrant budding day in spring--
Strange, that a man should let his mind
Be vexed by some light simple thing!
She had gone walking with my friend,
A splendid fellow, with a face
As handsome as Apollo’s own,
And figure full of manly grace.
And seeing that he gave to her
What seemed to me a tender gaze,
And that she was in happy mood,
My jealousy was all ablaze.
I called her traitor in my heart--
Was she not mine by every right?
Had I not held her to my breast,
And whispered things one starlight night?
I strode away to where the waves
Rushed on the beach with sullen roar,
She cared not for me, why should I
Think fondly of her any more?
Yet, when she softly called my name,
My heart beat quick with love and wrath,
And through the twilight soft and dim
I saw her coming down the path.
Then love was dumb, and anger spake,
The eyes of her grew proud and shy,
I called her heartless, and coquette--
What but a jealous fool was I?
She turned to leave me, then I grew
Ashamed of all my bitter speech,
But she seemed now so far from me,
I could not hope her grace to reach.
“Wait, Mariana, wait, and say
Farewell to one you hold in scorn!”
I cried, “and give to him I pray
One of the flowers you have worn.”
O, Violet, she lifted you
Up with her slender finger tips,
Laid you for one brief moment’s space
Against the redness of her lips.
Then gave you softly to my hand--
O, Violet, so sweet and shy!
In all God’s universe there was
No happier man, I wot, than I.
My Lady of the Silver Tongue
My Lady of the Silver Tongue,
Do you not feel a thrill of shame?
The woman is so fair and young--
Why seek to steal away her fame?
Nay, never mind that haughty stare,
For you and I must measure swords,
To tell you to your face I dare,
A lie lurked in your pretty words.
Did you not say awhile ago
“_I am her friend_,”--in earnest tone--
And soft that voice of yours, and low--
“_I am her friend when all is done_;”
As though a friend a doubt would fling,
And evil tongues to wagging start!
_I am her friend_--ah, there the sting,
No friend will grieve and hurt a heart!
Your eyes are very warm and kind,
And sweet the smile upon your lips,
I read the truth--I am not blind--
False are you to your finger-tips,
And I would rather be, to-day,
The slandered woman, fair and young,
Than be yourself, so proud and gay,
My Lady of the Silver Tongue!
A friend’s heart holds no wronging doubt,
No envy--meaner far than hate--
With tenderness it pieces out
The small shortcomings, and the great.
So when you slander--blush for shame--
Or, to some gossip’s tale attend,
I pray you take some other name,
And never say, _I am her friend_.
For loyalty is not a jest,
No sweeter word is said or sung,
Take time to learn that truth is best,
My Lady of the Silver Tongue.
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
Sweeping to the Sea
O river, sweeping to the sea!
How clear your waters are,--
So clear they mirror faithfully
Each fleecy cloud and star.
O river, running to the sea!
How fresh the breath you fling,
As on you speed right merrily
From winds that chase and sing!
Minerva’s Essay
“_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,”
So read Minerva from her essay fine.
“_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,”
Much emphasis she laid upon this line.
“We are no foolish children to be fed
On empty words of unearned praise, forsooth,
Too long in such poor ways have we been led,
Give us no compliment--give us the truth,
Think not a woman pines to hear you tell
How beautiful her form, how fair her face,
Think not she whispers to herself, ‘’Tis well!’
When you proclaim her rich in every grace.
You think to please her--Ah, sir, vain your dream,
When next such fulsome praises you may speak,
Mark well her eyes, and read their scornful gleam,
And note the angry blush, on brow and cheek.
Be fair, speak out your thoughts as they may rise,
Nor seek to hide them, since the truth is grand
All praise unmerited we do despise,
If you could read our mind, and understand.
Men, give more frankness, and less flattery,
Remember, we are neither dull, nor blind,
Men, give more frankness, and less flattery,
If you would win the trust of womankind.”
Much marvelled I at dear Minerva’s lay,
But thought she truly meant each earnest word,
And so neglected telling her straightway
How much her genius had my bosom stirred;
Neglected telling her that if two wings
But grew out from her shoulders soft and white,
Fair would she be as seraph mild that sings
The songs of love in Paradise to-night,
Neglected telling her the flowers she wore
Drooped with the heat of their own jealousy,
And whispered to each other o’er and o’er:
“Ah, how much sweeter is this maid than we!”
She begged for frankness from all men--from me--
For this her wondrous eloquence was poured.
So afterwards when she did question me,
I--foolish man--confessed that I was bored.
And when she showed her gown of palest blue,
Shook for me all its dainty ruffles out,
I would not praise it--though I wanted to--
Her red lips straight took on a pretty pout.
“Did not we graduates look very nice?”
She asked, and patted one rebellious curl.
“Frankness, not flattery,” I murmured twice,
“Let me remember it my own dear girl!”
“I’ve seen you looking lovelier,” I said,
“I like your hair best when it softly flows,
Not piled in one big bunch upon your head--
The powder showed quite plainly on your nose.”
Who was it said, “O, inconsistency,
Thy name is woman?” Surely he was right,
I spoke my thoughts, refrained from flattery,
Lo, for reward comes this brief note to-night:
“I think to longer be engaged to you
Would be a foolish thing, and very wrong.
POST-SCRIPT:
Gray says he dreamed the whole night through
Of me, and of my essay wise and strong.
If you should call to night, at eight, pray bring
My notes--and--and--the photo, and the curl,
I will return your presents and your ring,
To think, that _you_ should grow into a churl.”
I’m going to tell Minerva when we meet
That it was just a little joke of mine,
And nevermore--my cure is quite complete--
Will I believe a woman’s essay fine.
To the Queen
We send thee greetings on this morn in May,
Long live the Queen, right fervently we pray!
We daughters of this country young and fair
Join all our voices, singing songs of thee,
O may the words ring clearly on the air,
And reach the island cradled in the sea.
Our Queen! lo, at the words a thrill of pride,
Of tenderness, and trust springs into life.
Our Queen, who rules so well her kingdom wide,
Our Queen, so soft in peace, so bold in strife.
Our Queen! the love of loyal hearts we give,
We join our voices and we proudly say,
God bless the sweetest Woman--and long live
The greatest Ruler in the world to-day!
In the Old Church
“The fine new kirk is finished, wife--the old has had its day,
’Tis like ourselves, a trifle worn, and out of date, and gray.
Stained windows and a tower high--I like not such a show,
Beside the cost is something great, and money does not grow.
Now when they come to me for help I’m going to tell them, plain,
That since they’ve built to please themselves they’ll ask my
help in vain.”
Then sat the woman at his side: “’Tis meet God’s house should be
As good a one as we can give,” she answered tenderly.
“And we who’ve worshipped all the years in that old church so gray,
Should go with songs, and thankful hearts, into the new to-day.
For think of all the precious hours we have had over there--
The hours of penitence and tears, the hours of peace and prayer.
I went to-day to say good-bye, and as I stood alone,
The memory of blessings shared came to me, one by one.
I heard the message from the Word, the sermon good and wise,
I heard the songs of love and hope ring clearly to the skies;
And looking over to the pew we’ve worshipped in for years,
I seemed to see so many things, to see them through my tears.
I saw us sitting there when we were young, and glad, and strong,
Ere we had learned that sorrow lends a sweetness to life’s song
When every golden Sabbath day found us in love with life--
The world was fair, and God was good, and we were man and wife.
One pretty far off summer morn my dim eyes seemed to see,
A morn when I sat by your side, our first-born on my knee;
His fair head lay upon my arm, and rich was I, and proud,
I whispered in the Master’s ear things spoken not aloud;
And then our other bonnie lads grew plain unto my eyes,
And Belle--our lassie fair and good, our lassie sweet and wise.
I felt again her little hand clasped tightly in my own--
A mother holds her daughter dear, and I had but the one.
My soft eyed one, my loving one, with braids of yellow hair--
Ah me! I could not help but know the little one was fair.
In the old church I thought upon our hour of grief and pain,
Of loneliness--_she went away and came not back again_--
When broken-hearted ’neath the loss we bowed beneath the rod,
There, close about us in that hour, we felt the arm of God.
I saw us older grown and bent, each tall son in his place,
I saw the minister who stood with heaven in his face,
His worn old face we loved so well, his eyes that seemed to see
The golden light that lights the shore of God’s eternity;
And yet how simple was his heart, how kindly was his way,
And how he cared for all his flock, nor wearied night nor day!
If one strayed far he followed it, and won it back to fold,
If one fell down he lifted it with tenderness untold;
He fell asleep his labor done--how sweet must be the rest
Of one who made his motto this, _The Lord shall have my best_.
Good-bye, old church! Good-bye, I said, and left its portals wide,
And then I turned and looked upon the new church just beside;
Upon its windows tall and stained the yellow sunbeams played,
It stood, the temple of the Lord, in loveliness arrayed.
“I thought,” she said, and stroked his hand, “of one who takes his rest,
I seemed to hear his deep voice say: _The Lord shall have my best_.”
The sun crept lower in the sky, the world lay sweet and fair,
A bird trilled softly from its throat a song that was a prayer.
The old man looked up at his wife, with tears his cheeks were wet,
“Ay, there are many things,” he said, “we may not, dear, forget.
We’re growing old, wife, like the day our sun sinks in the west,
I’ll say with him we both loved well, _The Lord shall have my best_.”
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
September
September comes across the hills
Her blue veil softly flowing,
Her flagons deep of wine she spills,
And sets the old world glowing.
Yon robin’s piping her a tune--
How runs his carol tender?
“I knew you once as pretty June,
When you were young and slender.
And though you’ve grown a gracious thing,
Full-blossomed, grand and stately,
I still can see a hint of spring--
Your youth’s but left you lately.”
Spring o’ the Year
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Was there ever a song so gay,
As the song the meadow-lark sings to me
When we meet in the fields each day?
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Then pauses a moment to look
At soft green leaves on shrub and tree,
And buttercups gay in the brook.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
No more weather gloomy and sad,
Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!
Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you glad?
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Isn’t it blue--the sky above?
Watch ’em, watch ’em, these mates of mine,
Building their nests, and making love.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Ho! I sing it morning and night,
Never were meadows quite so green,
Never were posies quite so bright.
“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Out rings his song so sweet and shrill,
Its gladness catches you unawares,
With its gurgle, and laugh, and thrill.
Mildred
My lady Mildred tells me oft
That she is mistress now of me,
Her voice is very sweet and soft,
But, ah, an autocrat is she.
Go, say the red lips, and I go,
Come, and I hasten to her side,
Her warm smile sets my heart aglow,
Her quaintness is my joy and pride.
I used to say in phrases fine
That I was master of myself,
The proud boast is no longer mine;
I’m subject to a wilful elf.
My Mildred with the rose-leaf face,
A tyrant spirit sways your breast,
For humbly though I sue your grace,
You will not grant a moment’s rest.
I’ve served you for a whole long year--
The woman new has come to stay--
But tell me, now, have you no fear
That I will mutiny some day.
You give yourself a lofty air,
Your throne an ill-used father’s knee--
_Now worry fly, slink off dull care,
I have my girl, and she has me_.
My lady Mildred without doubt,
Your tender eyes are full of mirth,
And by and by, your laugh rings out,
The gladdest sound in all the earth.
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
The Old Valentine
I sent my sweetheart a valentine on one St. Valentine’s day,
A long time ago, when my hair was brown, ah, now it is sprinkled
with grey!
My sweetheart was pretty as she could be, a wild rose bloomed in
each cheek,
Her auburn hair rippled down to her waist, her eyes were tender and meek.
And, O, my sweetheart was dear to me, though nobody could have guessed
From my careless glance, or my careless word, the tenderness in my
breast.
I sent my sweetheart a valentine, a flowery and foolish thing,
All covered with blue forget-me-nots, and cupids gay on the wing.
Two hearts pierced through, a ruffle of lace, a knot of ribbon, a dove,
And, better than all, a space whereon I could write a message of love;
So burning the midnight oil I wrote with infinite patience and care,
This one earnest verse (for rhyming came hard) to send to my lady fair:
“I love you, I love you with all my heart, And fain would I call
you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl, Let me be your valentine!”
This yellow old page from the book of youth was put in my hand to-day,
As I growled, “Our Tom has fallen in love in a nonsensical way;
He is making a fool of himself--ha! ha! he is writing poetry now,
To his Anna’s lips, and his Anna’s hair, his Anna’s beautiful brow.”
“Why what rubbish is this?” I asked my wife, a portly but sweet-faced
dame,
Who smilingly showed me the verse underneath which I had written my name;
Shamefaced, I read it again and again--let me confess to a truth--
I felt like disowning the yellow thing that belonged to the days
of youth.
Till I pictured myself an excited lad penning the words of care,
Knowing her answer would fill my heart with rapture or dark despair.
It was yesterday, who says we are old? “I do,” says Mary, my wife,
“But age has nothing to do with it, since the choosing was done
for life.”
I bowed my grey head over her hand, “my sweetheart,” I whispered low,
On this Valentine’s day I tender you the verse written long ago.
“I love you, I love you with all my heart,
And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl,
Let me be your Valentine.”
The Boy of the House
He was the boy of the house you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad,
He was never tired and never sick,
And nothing could make him sad.
If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end
But his bed-time came too soon.
Did some one urge that he make less noise,
He would say with a saucy grin,
“Why, one boy alone doesn’t make much stir--
I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!
“There’s two of twins--oh it must be fun
To go double at everything,
To holler by twos, and to run by twos,
To whistle by twos, and to sing!”
His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy,
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.
You met him out in the garden path,
With the terrier at his heels,
You knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.
The maiden auntie was half distraught
At his tricks, as the day went by,
“The most mischievous child in the world!”
She said, with a shrug and a sigh.
His father owned that her words were true,
And his mother declared each day
Was putting wrinkles into her face,
And was turning her brown hair grey.
His grown-up sister referred to him
As a trouble, a trial, a grief,
“The way he ignored all rules,” she said,
“Was something beyond belief.”
But it never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in clatter and din,
And had only one regret in the world--
That he hadn’t been born a twin.
* * * * *
There’s nobody making a noise to-day,
There’s nobody stamping the floor,
There’s an awful silence up-stairs and down,
There’s crape on the wide hall door.
The terrier’s whining out in the sun--
“Where’s my comrade?” he seems to say,
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There’s no frolic for you to-day.
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door,
Is sobbing her young heart out,
Don’t cry little girl, you’ll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.
The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him “darling” and “sweet,”
The maiden aunt is holding the shoes
That he wore on his restless feet.
How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!
So solemn and still the big house seems--
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No startling shriek, no voice piping out,
“I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!”
There’s a man and a woman pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything--
The boy of the house is asleep.
For He was Scotch and so was She
They were a couple well-content
With what they earned and what they spent,
Cared not a whit for style’s decree,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
And O, they loved to talk of Burns;
Dear, lithesome, tender, Bobby Burns!
They never wearied of his song,
He never sang a note too strong,
One little fault could neither see,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
They loved to read of men who stood
And gave for country, life and blood,
Who held their faith so dear a thing
They scorned to yield it to a king;
Ah! proud of such they well might be--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
From neighbor’s broil they kept away--
No liking for such things had they,
And O, each had a cannie mind!
Each could be deaf, and dumb, and blind;
Of words--nor pence--were none too free--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
I would not have you think this pair
Went on in weather always fair,
For well you know in married life
Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife;
They couldn’t always just agree--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
But near of heart they ever kept,
Until at close of life they slept,
Just this to say when all was past--
They loved each other to the last,
They’re loving yet in heaven, maybe--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
The Legend of Love
There’s a cup on the very topmost shelf
Of the cupboard built in the wall,
On one side a vine is traced on the delf
With forget-me-nots blue and small;
On the other the words stand boldly up
That were once a pride and a joy,
For a legend it bears, this old-fashioned cup,
Which runs, “For a good little boy!”
’Twas bought by a mother with eyes as blue
As forget-me-nots pretty and shy,
When youth was her portion, and love was true,
And the days went merrily by.
On the cottage floor where the sunbeams crept,
Played her own sturdy lad of three,
And but yesterday he smiled and he slept
Such a pretty babe on her knee.
He followed her down to the garden gate
On her way to the little town,
“Now hurry right back, and don’t you be late,”
He said with a pout and a frown.
He must have some toys for the Christmas-tide,
So she bought him a tiny sled,
And a nice little box of sweets beside
To go into his mouth so red.
“Was there anything else!” she asked herself,
“She could buy for the laddie small?”
It was then that she saw the cup of delf
Which stands on the shelf in the wall.
“For a good little boy,” ah, that meant him,
With a face as sweet as a rose,
“He is good,” she said, and her eyes grew dim,
“From his curly head to his toes.”
And she carried her treasures one by one
To the cottage down in the lane,
Where the winter sunbeams brightly shone
On his face at the window pane.
He was proud of the sleigh with its jingling bells
And the box was a thing of joy,
“But the cup is best,” he said, “for it tells
That I’m such a good little boy.”
O poor little mother, your eyes so blue,
Faded out with the wash of tears!
O poor little mother, your heart so true,
It broke with the weight of years!
And there, on the very topmost shelf,
The old-fashioned cup it has stood,
Since a day long ago when she owned to herself
That her boy was no longer good.
There is dust on it now, but believe me, dear,
It was once a pride and a joy,
With its legend of love, so bright and so clear,
Which runs, “For a good little Boy.”
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
Our Father
Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
The words, _Our Father_, when we kneel to pray,
Our Father thou, then every child of thine
Is, by the bond, a brother, Lord, of mine.
Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
_Thy will be done_, when we kneel down to pray--
Thy will be done--then our proud wills must break
And lose themselves in love for Thy dear sake.
Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
_Give us our daily bread_, when thus we pray;
We will be trustful when we understand,
Nor grasp the loaf from out a brother’s hand.
Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say,
_Forgive our trespasses_, when, meek, we pray;
Forgive! the word was made in Paradise,
And this world’s hope and faith within it lies.
Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
The words Christ gave us, when we kneel to pray,
For when we know and live their meaning deep,
No heart will need to break, no eyes to weep.
Jack
Jack’s dead an’ buried, it seems odd,
A deep hole covered up with sod
A lyin’ out there on the hill,
An’ Jack, as never could keep still,
A sleepin’ in it. Jack could race,
And do it at a good old pace,
Could sing a song, an’ laugh so hard
That I could hear him in our yard
When he was half-a-mile away.
Why not another boy could play
Like him, or run, or jump so high,
Or swim, no matter how he’d try,
An’ I can’t get it through my head
At all, at all, that Jack is dead.
Jack’s mother didn’t use to be
So awful good to him an’ me,
For often when I’d go down there
On Saturday’s, when it was fair,
To get him out to fish or skate,
She’d catch me hangin’ round the gate,
An’ look as cross as some old hen,
An’ tell me, “Go off home again,
It’s not the thing for boys,” she’d say,
“A hangin’ round the creek all day,
You go off home and do your task,
No, Jack can’t go, you needn’t ask,”
An’ when he got in scrapes, why, she
Would up and lay it on to me,
An’ wish I lived so far away
Jack couldn’t see me every day.
But last night when I’d done the chores,
It seemed so queer like out of doors,
I kept a listenin’ all the while
An’ looking down the street a mile;
I couldn’t bear to go inside,
The house is lonesome since he died,
The robber book we read by turns
Is lyin’ there--an’ no boy learns
All by himself, ’cause he can’t tell
How many words he’ll miss or spell,
Unless there’s someone lookin’ on
To laugh at him when he gets done.
An’ neighbor women’s sure to come
A visitin’ a feller’s home,
An’ talkin’ when they look at me
’Bout how thick us two used to be--
A stealin’ off from school, an’ such--
An’ askin’ “Do I miss him much?”
’Till I sneak off out doors, you see,
They just can’t let a feller be!
Well, I walked down the road a bit,
Smith’s dog came out, I throwed at it,
An’ do you know it never howled
Same as it always did, or growled,
It seemed to say, “why! Jim’s alone,
Now, I wonder where’s that other one?”
Afore I knew it I was down
Way at the other end of town,
A hangin’ round in the old way
For some one to come out an’ play.
There wasn’t no one there to look
So I slipped in to our old nook,
I found his knife hid in the grass
Where we’d been Zulus at the pass,
The can of bait, an’ hook an’ line,
Were lyin’ with the ball of twine,
An’ “Jim,” I seemed to hear him say,
“The fish will suffer some to-day!”
’Twas more than I could stand just then,
I got up to go off home, when
Someone kissed me on the cheek,
An’ hugged me so I couldn’t speak,
You won’t believe it, like as not,
But ’twas Jack’s mother, an’ a lot
Of great big tears came stealin’ down
Right on my face; she didn’t frown
A single bit--kept sayin’ low,
“My blue eyed boy! I loved you so!”
Of course I knew just right away
That she meant Jack--my eyes are grey--
But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,
Blue like you see up in the skies,
An’ shine that used to come and go--
One misses eyes like his you know.