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Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs
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Though fourscore years he give,
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die,
Perchance, in June!
Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it;
Soon as he's born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away:
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!
A MIRAGE
Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle dove—
Were I thy bride!
This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The melancholy flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night owl's hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark's trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I'd woo—
Were I thy bride!
The rose's sigh
Were as a carrion's cry
To lullaby
Such as I'd sing to thee,
Were I thy bride!
A feather's press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I'm not thy bride!
A MERRY MADRIGAL
Brightly dawns our wedding day;
Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!
Whither, whither art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
What though mortal joys be hollow?
Pleasures come, if sorrows follow:
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Yet until the shadows fall
Over one and over all,
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!
Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours are surely creeping,
Little need for woeful weeping,
Till the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the cup of sorrow—
I to-day and thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song—
Ding dong! Ding dong!
What, though solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later, over all?
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!
THE LOVE-SICK BOY
When first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die,
Perchance, in June!
Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it;
Soon as he's born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away:
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!
A MIRAGE
Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle dove—
Were I thy bride!
This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The melancholy flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night owl's hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark's trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I'd woo—
Were I thy bride!
The rose's sigh
Were as a carrion's cry
To lullaby
Such as I'd sing to thee,
Were I thy bride!
A feather's press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I'm not thy bride!
A MERRY MADRIGAL
Brightly dawns our wedding day;
Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!
Whither, whither art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
What though mortal joys be hollow?
Pleasures come, if sorrows follow:
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Yet until the shadows fall
Over one and over all,
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!
Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours are surely creeping,
Little need for woeful weeping,
Till the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the cup of sorrow—
I to-day and thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song—
Ding dong! Ding dong!
What, though solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later, over all?
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!
THE LOVE-SICK BOY
When first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!
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