Heart Songs. Jean Blewett
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Water
Wooing His Valentine
IF I could speak in phrases fine,
Full sweet the words that I would say
To woo you for my valentine
Upon this February day.
But when I strive to tell you all,
The charms I see in your dear face,
A dumbness on me seems to fall—
O, sweetheart, let me crave your grace!
I fain would say your eyes of blue,
Like violets to me appear;
Shy blossoms, filled with heaven’s dew,
That throw their sweetness far and near.
How tender are your lips of red!
How like a rose each velvet cheek!
How bright the gold upon your head—
All this I’d say, if I could speak.
How warm your blushes come and go!
How maidenly your air and mien!
How pure the glances you bestow—
Wilt be my Valentine, O Queen?
The angels walking at your side,
Methinks have lent their charms to you,
For in the world so big and wide,
There is not one so good and true.
If I had but the gift of speech,
Your beauty and your grace to prove,
Then might I find a way to reach
Your heart, and all its wealth of love.
Then, sweetheart, take the good intent—
Truth has no need of phrases fine—
Repay what long ago I lent,
And be to-day my Valentine.
Jealous, Sweetheart?
A STEP on the walk she’s waiting to hear—
Waiting—waiting—
There’s a frown on her face—pouting ’tis clear,
Ah, someone is late in coming I fear.
All lovers are very fickle, my dear,
Waiting, waiting!
Only last week he was praising up Nell—
Praising—praising—
Saying her voice was clear as a bell,
Thinking her fairer, and who is to tell
All that he said as they walked through the dell?
Praising, praising!
Perhaps he is with her this summer night—
Who knows? Who knows?
Perhaps he is holding her hand so white,
Perhaps he is watching her eyes so bright,
Perhaps he is wooing with all his might,
Who knows? Who knows?
Perhaps he is saying, “I love you best!”
Who cares? Who cares?
No need to carry a weight on one’s breast,
No need to worry and lose one’s rest,
Life is a comedy, love is a jest,
Who cares? Who cares?
What if he has quite forgotten to keep
Old ways—old ways—
There’s a path where the silver moonbeams creep,
And the tangled flowers have fallen asleep,
And the dew is heavy—the clover deep—
Old ways—old ways!
He’s not coming to-night, no need to wait,
Ah me! Ah me!
Hark, the clock is chiming the hour of eight,
And once on a time he railed at the fate
That kept him, if only a half-hour late—
Ah me! Ah me!
But who comes here with a swinging stride?
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Turns she away in her pique and pride,
Turns she away, till he says at her side,
“There’s but one for me in the world so wide!”
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Now in the blossoms the beaded dew slips,
Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Someone is kissing two tremulous lips,
And there lingers no sign of the past eclipse,
Down in the clover a drowsy bee sips,
Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
The Day Neil Rode to Mill
MACLEOD of Dare called his son to him,
MacLeod of Dare looked morose and grim,
For he was sending on mission grave
This son of his, both handsome and brave,
And trembled, thinking, “what if he make
In his heedless youth a grave mistake?”
’Twas not for country, nor for the King,
Nay, ’twas a much more important thing
Than the Church, or State, than feud or strife—
The mission was to search out a wife.
And young Neil listened with scanty grace,
A look of impatience on his face,
While the old man told him where to go,
Told him what to say, and what to do,
“On the morrow ye’ll gang an’ stay
Wi’ yer rich auld uncle, Allan Gray;
He ’ill gie ye the welcome o’ a son,
Ye’ll marry the dochter, there’s but one,
She’s worth the winnin’, for in her hand
She hauds the deed o’ all o’ his land,
She’s no weel-favored, a homely maid,
But guid, an’ properly grave an’ staid.”