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334 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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It was not you I came to see this morning but another,
But who could look on that brown head, and ask for Tom, the brother ?
Your blue eyes have bewitched me quite, the eatin' and the dhrinkin'
Have lost the grah ' they used to have, of you I'm always thinkin'.
The white of wheat is on your cheek, the scarlet of
the berry There sweetly blends : on each soft lip the smile comes
quick and merry; And oh ! the blue, blue eyes that shine beneath their
silken lashes — My word ! it is for'sake of them my bread is turned
to ashes!
But sure this foolish tongue of mine won't get to tell
its story — Oh, how I wish I had the talk of my fine cousin Rory ! Who's just as glib as if he ate the highest English
Grammar, And if he loved a thousand times it would not make
him stammer.
And yet I almost think she cares—for sometimes how
she blushes ! And so this pleasant eve of May, when all the larks
and thrushes Are singing their sweet songs of love, I'll try an' tell
my story, Although I cannot sing like them, or speak like cousin
Rory.
Grah, taste. |
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