When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue. But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself, there's not a thumb or little finger stands. O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town; If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall; O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress; -William Allingham. EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews. Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moon light Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor-will sounded, Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of dark ness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!" -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. MANDALAY By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: 46 Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lav: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunking from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, Bloomin' idol made o' mud Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd — Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she 'd sing "Kullalo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay But that's all shove be'ind me-long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land! Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst. Where there are n't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would beBy the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea On the road to Mandalay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! -Rudyard Kipling. BRUSHWOOD On a weary slope of Apennine, As if in penance for prayers unsaid. Her dull cheeks channeled were with tears, How far, how very far it seemed, Laden till it could bear no more, Has seen a heavenward light that smiled, To the quiet of that home. Steeper and rougher grew the road, Again she heard the toiling tread |