Down in the glen
By the trysting tree,
Somebody's brother is waiting for me;
Waiting in vain,
Though it may seem cruel,
But how can I help it--the poor little fool!
I know I'm not faithful
As he is--but then,
Women are never as constant as men.
He'll never forgive me;
I know I'm to blame,
But he might have treated me some day the same.
WALTER TALLMADGE ARNDT.
_The Badger._
~To the Cigarette Girl.~
Your motions all are sweet and full of grace
As daintily you roll your cigarette;
You smoke it with a pretty puckered face
That I, a mortal man, can ne'er forget.
It's jolly fun when you adopt our sins;
Pray never fear of being thought a "poke."
Your every mood sincerest worship wins,
And yet I wish, my dear, you didn't smoke.
H. F. H.
_Amherst Literary Monthly,_
~A Game of Chess.~
We played at chess one wintry night
Beside the fire, that warm and bright
Was mirrored in her hazel eyes;
Methought a gleam from Paradise
Outshone the back-log's flickering light.
The hand that took my queen was white,
I trembled at its gentle might;
Nor sweeter game could Love devise--
We played at chess.
I scarce could see to play aright,
I took a pawn and lost a knight,
And then she gazed with mild surprise--
She said I was not shrewd nor wise;
And yet, to me, with strange delight
We played at chess.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.
_Amherst Literary Monthly_.
~When Margaret Laughs.~
When Margaret laughs the world is gay,
All care is driven far away;
Her hat aslant, with roguish air,
A red carnation in her hair--
True daughter of the merry May.
The rosebuds of a summer's day,
The modest flowers along her way,
All seem to have a grace more fair,
When Margaret laughs.
Oh, youth! for her so bright and gay,
Oh, years! that slip so fast away,
Keep her, I pray thee, fresh and fair,
Dainty, bewitching, debonair,
For life is but a holiday
When Margaret laughs.
GEORGE B. KILBOURNE.
_Williams Literary Monthly._
~The Captive.~
I've sought for Cupid by day and night,
But he always contrived to elude me,
And kept discreetly out of my sight,
Nor showed his face, the crafty wight,
Nor e'er for a moment sued me.
And often while for his face I sought
I thought with a thrill I had found him,
By my little wiles and my coaxing caught,
Or even for gold ignobly bought,
With his arrows and bow around him.
But now my pulse gives a fresh, wild start,
And a throb of joyous surprise, dear,
As I see him, armed with his subtle dart,
A fellow prisoner with my heart,
In the depths of your hazel eyes, dear.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_
~The Difference.~
All in the days of long ago,
When Grandfather a-wooing went,
He looked a gallant, dashing beau,
And with his looks was well content
He rode beside My Lady's chair
With gracious salutation,
He vowed she was divinely fair
And told his adoration.
But now, alas, poor Grandfather
Would stand but sorry chances
Of passionately telling her
His bosom's sweetest fancies.
For since a wheel My Lady rides,
The bravest, gayest courtier
Would lose her, if he weren't besides
A fairly rapid scorcher.
H.K. WEBSTER.
_Hamilton Literary Monthly._
~The Lenten Maid.~
Her wonted smiles are turned to frowns,
Her laugh a sigh,
Sackcloth and ashes for ball gowns--
Ah, luckless I.
While worldly thought! away are gone,--
Her Lenten part,--
Does Cupid blunt his darts upon
A stony heart?
Ah, though her mirth and jollities
She puts aside,
The silent laughter of her eyes
She cannot hide.
S. R. KENNEDY.
_Yale Record_.
~Wealth.~
I like pretty maids flushed with joy,
With glad hair blowing free.
They smile right kind on many a boy,
But only one on me.
But I have a penny, a fiddle, and Joan,
And my sweet Joan has me.
Meadow and flock, the wise folk said,
It never were right to miss,
But my maid Joan has a kirtle red
And a merry mouth to kiss.
And I can fiddle and Joan can sing,
And what were better than this?
The young men talk of getting and gold,
And lands far over the sea.
But I and my fiddle will never grow old,
And this is the life for me.
I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan,
And my sweet Joan has me.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
_Smith College Monthly._
~Jamie's Word wi' the Sea.~
(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)
Ye'll no fret ye mair the noo,
Wull ye, sea?
Like ye've dune the winter through,
Roarin' at the sands and me.
Ye were wearyin' yersel'
Till her bit,
Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell.
Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!
Ken ye no the way she rins?
Hoo her hair,
Ower-muckle fer the pins,
Blaws aboot her everywhere?
Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din?
Puir blin' thing!
Ye'll no see her happy rin;
"Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.
Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea,
Doon yer sands,
Jinnie's callin' doon tae me!
Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!
ROBERT JERMAIN COLE.
_Columbia Literary Monthly._
~Lent.~
Priscilla is a maid devout
In this repentant season,
And to the world and all its ways
Has vowed a pious treason.
Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!--
Though long I've tried to win her
I fear that I'm not in it with
Some other lucky sinner.
For when I begged she'd trust her heart
To me, and o'er her bent,
She blushed and softly murmured,
"How can I when it's Lent."
T. L. CLARKE.
_Yale Record._
~I Dream of Flo.~
I dream of Flo, and memory, fleeting light,
Calls up the happy bygone days to-night,
The scent of lavender is faint in air,
(Ah, well-remembered flowers she loved to wear!)
My senses float afar in rapt delight.
How can I e'er forget that summer night!
'Tis not because her black eyes shone so bright,
Nor is it for the witchery in her hair,
I dream of Flo.
She promised me a cushion well bedight
With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight,
Must send to her--she said, exchange is fair--
My college pin in gold. Her cushion's where
With half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not aright
I dream of Flo?
ALBERT SARGENT DAVIS.
_Yale Courant._
~A Humble Romance.~
Her ways were rather frightened, and she wasn't much to see,
She wasn't good at small talk, or quick at repartee;
Her gown was somewhat lacking in the proper cut and tone,
And it wasn't difficult to see she'd made it all alone.
So the gay young men whose notice would have filled her with delight
Paid very small attention to the little girl in white.
He couldn't talk the theatre, for he hadn't time to go,
And, though he knew that hay was high, and butter rather low,
He couldn't say the airy things that other men rehearse,
While his waltzing was so rusty that he didn't dare reverse.
The beauties whom he sighed for were most frigidly polite,
So perforce he came and sat beside the little girl in white.
She soon forgot her envy of the glittering _beau monde_,
For their common love of horses proved a sympathetic bond.
She told him all about the farm, and how she came to town,
And showed the honest little heart beneath the home-made gown.
A humble tale, you say,--and yet he blesses now the night
When first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.
JULIET W. TOMPKINS.
_Vassar Miscellany_.
~Mendicants.~
"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hills
To your friendly door I come.
I'm a mother; in my breast
I have wrapped my only son.
Lady, blessed of the Three,
Give us shelter for a night.
Pure and wise they say thou art,
Pity one by fate bedight."
Calm and grave the maiden stood;
Eyed that weary mother long,
Drooping form, despairing face,
Eyes pathetic with great wrong.
"Enter," gently then she spake,
"Peace be thine from skies above,
Only I have closed my door,
Closed and barred it fast from Love."
By the hearthstone warm and bright
Sits the mother crooning low;
Ah! an arrow's silver gleam,
Flashes of a golden bow!
Soft she sways a dimpled child
Winged with down, and innocent;
"Hush thee, Eros,--sleep, my son,"
Sings her voice in glad content.
M. E. H. EVERETT.
_Madisonensis_.
~With My Cigar.~
With my cigar I sit alone,
Alone in twilight's undertone,
With wav'ring shadows growing deep,
While long-forgotten faces peep
Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown
Into a frame that doth enthrone
A face that from my heart hath grown.
Sweet mem'ries o'er my being creep,
With my cigar.
Those hazel eyes on me have shone,
Those roguish lips have pressed my own,
And this the harvest that I reap!
And this the sweetness that I keep,
To wake, to find the vision flown
With my cigar!
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY.
_Brunonian_.
~To Waltz with Thee.~
To waltz with thee, my pretty belle,
To silver music's magic spell,
Was such a strange unmixed delight
That I had wished the merry night
Into eternity might swell.
* * * *
Terpsichore ne'er danced so well!
Can all the Graces in thee dwell?
My soul was raised to such a height
To waltz with thee.
Enchanting strains now rose, now fell,
Thy charms what raptures would compel!
Thy feet were winged, thy figure slight,
Thy winning tread, entrancing, light,--
What bliss to me that night befell,
To waltz with thee!
GEORGE B. ZUG.
_Amherst Literary Monthly._
~To Maude's Guitar.~
Sweet guitar, so old thou art
Thou seemest strange to modern eyes,
Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart
The softest music hidden lies.
Whene'er thy strings with gentle hand
I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords,
There comes a breath of foreign lands
That seems to sing soft Spanish words.
Was Caballero's passion deep
E'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass?
Didst ever break señora's sleep
By music 'neath her window-case?
Somewhere--sometime, a song was sung
By lover bold or maiden fair,
So sweet, thou hid'st it deep among
Thy soulful strings, and kept it there.
Whoe'er it was, that distant day,
That loved to strike thy mellow strings,
Whoever sang that sweet love-lay,
Its echo still within thee rings.
Though Maude may vow she loves me not,
And jolly glees may lightly play,
I look beyond the surface thought,
And hear that echoing old love-lay.
L. C. STONE.
_Amherst Literary Monthly_.
[Illustration: A BROWN GIRL.]
~Tantalizing.~
Her rosy cheeks are pressed to mine,
Her gleaming hair lies on my shoulder,
Her arms are clasped about my neck,
And yet my arms do not enfold her.
Her throbbing heart beats loud and fast,
Her wistful eyes are gently pleading.
Her blushing lips are pursed to kiss,
And yet my lips are all unheeding.
I coldly loose her clinging arms,
And roughly from my side I shove her.
It's amateur theatricals,
And I must play the tyrant lover.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.
_Brunonian_
~Phantasy.~
Her beaming eyes of deepest blue
Enthralled all who to Yale were true.
Her crimson lips, too, conquests made:
Fair Harvard's sons their homage paid,
And many a suitor came to woo
Petite Elaine.
I begged a kiss awhile ago;
The crimson lips, 'tis true, said "No,"
But in her eyes turned up to me
I read the answer differently--
The crimson never had a show,
Yale won again.
_Yale Record._
~Rosebuds.~
She plucked a rosebud by the wall
And placed it in his outstretched hands;
It was love's token, that was all,
And he rode off to foreign lands.
He kept the rosebud in his breast,
And when the battle charge was led,
They found him slain among the rest,
The rosebud stained a deeper red.
But she, beside the wall that day,
A rosebud gave to other hands;
Nor thought of that one borne away
By him who rode to foreign lands.
_Bowdoin Orient._
~Bashful Johnny.~
Young bashful Johnny loved sweet May,
And went to court her every day,
But his tongue could never swear
He loved her true.
It seems to me, had I been there,
I'd vowed my love--now wouldn't you?
Sweet May would sit by Johnny's side
And all her thoughts to him confide,
Yet take her hand he'd never dare--
So near his, too.
It seems to me, had I been there,
I'd clasped it tight--now wouldn't you?
And May's red lips seemed to invite
Sweet kisses, but so bold a flight
He thought--yet wondered if she'd care--
Would never do.
It seems to me, had I been there,
I would have kissed her--now wouldn't you?
GEORGE G. GILLETTE.
_Williams Literary Monthly._
~Cupid's Blunder.~
Poor Cupid froze his wings one day,
When winds were cold and skies were gray,
And clouds with snow were laden.
A little maid was passing by;
She caught the rogue,--he could not fly,--
O naughty little maiden!
She sent him off with sharpen'd dart,
To steal for her a certain heart;
But, oh, the mishap stupid!
Since Cupid's blind, and cannot see.
He went astray, and came to me.
O naughty little Cupid!
So that is why my heart is gone,
And I am dreary and forlorn,
With tears my eyes are laden.
She does not want my heart--ah, no!
I did not wish to have it go;
O Cupid, and O maiden!
GERTRUDE JONES.
_Wellesley Magazine._
~As Toll.~
Lovely Mabel, were you dreaming?
Glad the day you said to me,
Dancing eyes so brightly beaming,
"Give my love to dear Marie!"
What a strange exhilaration
To be bearer of your heart,
What a wonderful temptation
For a part.
For I have not tried to find her
Since you sent your love by me;
Day by day I think I'm blinder,--
Fruitless search, as you might see.
I wonder, if in sending,
If you choose your slave by chance,
What that twinkle was portending
In your glance?
Tell me, when I bear the treasure,
Would you very angry be
Should I keep a trifling measure
That was hardly meant for me?
For it's common in commissions
Some percentage of the whole
To extract from you patricians.
Just for toll.
JOHN BARKER.
_Williams Literary Monthly._
~Chansonette.~
Dimpled cheeks and scarlet lips,
Pink and dainty finger-tips,
Glowing blushes, fragrant sighs,
Looks dove-sweet from starry eyes,
These do show this saying true--
Maidens all were meant to woo!
Guerdon dear shall be his meed
Who will be Love's thrall in deed:
Strollings 'neath a mellow moon,
Whispers soft as rain in June,
Kisses, maybe, one or two--
Maidens all were meant to woo!
WILL L. GRAVES.
_Makio_.
~Triolet.~
He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe!
Of course I said it wasn't fair
To take advantage of me so,
And kiss me 'neath the mistletoe,--
But then, 'twas only Jack, you know,
And so I really didn't care!
He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe,
Although I said ft wasn't fair!
GERTRUDE CRAVEN.
_Smith College Monthly_.
~Song.~
The April sun smiles bright above,
The skies are deep and blue,
I walk among the growing fields
And dream, sweetheart, of you.
And as I go, from out the wood
A mocking-bird calls clear,
"Sweetheart, sweetheart," and I turn,
Half hoping thou art here.
Alas! the sunlight floods the earth,
Yet all is dark to me;
The flowers may gaily bud and bloom,
The earth be fair to see;
And "sweetheart, sweetheart," evermore
The mocking-bird may sing,
But in a fairer land thine eyes
Are opening to the spring.
R.L. EATON.
_Morningside_.
~The Effigy.~
And so she smiles!--Nor frown nor pout
That look divine can put to rout.
I would, my love, thou wert half
So constant as thy photograph!
P.P.S.
_Parthenon_.
~Sotto Voce.~
Sing we of the summer,
Of the old, old days,
Of the reed songs and the murmur
Of the waterways.
Let thy song be merry, ever mine be sad;
Let thy sigh be airy, even ofttimes glad;
For then comes a sadness I cannot explain,
Like the deep-plunged echo of a sea's refrain;
And it dooms the sweetness
Of her winsome ways
To the dead completeness
Of the old, old days.
Sing, Oh! then with joyance,
Thou, my mandolin;
Drown each dread annoyance
Deep, thy soul within;
Whisper ever lowly of her glad, true eyes;
Sing her name, love, slowly, thou can'st sympathize;
Teach my heart, my wilful heart, the faith of peace,
Promising her constancy with time's increase.
Bar, Oh! break the sadness
Of the doubter's sin;
Sing eternal gladness,
Thou, my mandolin.
HAROLD MARTIN BOWMAN.
_Inlander_.
~On Tying Daphne's Shoe.~
Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet;
My fumbling fingers found such service sweet,
And lingered o'er the task till, when I rose,
Cupid had bound me captive in her bows.
J. STUART BRYAN.
_Virginia University Magazine_.