Will you no give me your
promised
word
For the love that I do feel?
For the love that I do feel?
Tennyson
I'll now give you my hands both
My friendship for to show. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie dear,
The tears stand in these eyne.
Will you no give me a kind word
For the sake of old lang syne? "
"Oh! I will give you a kind word
Tho' I have little skill,
For the time that we were children
And played upon the hill. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lass o' gold,
Will you no give me a kiss?
My heart, I think, is like to break
If you refuse me this. "
"Alas! and if I must refuse
You will not think me bad.
That your heart should break for my sake,
In truth it makes me sad. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie oh!
I will be true as steel.
Will you no give me your promised word
For the love that I do feel? "
"Indeed--indeed--I like you well
Aye, better than my brother,
But I canna give you my promised word
For--I must wait for another. "
DRAMAS.
June and November.
On a day, long ago, I was just a child,
I walked with my lover, my arm in his arm,
Half of me was sad and half with joy was wild,
The wind was so soft and the sun was so warm.
I walked with my lover to his pretty nonsense listening,
And I pressed my beating heart against my lover's side;
And tho' my voice was steady my traitor eyes were glistening,
I showed to my lover all I wished to hide.
His vows were so tender, his speech was so fluent,
He whispered his sorrow if ever we must part.
My heart in my bosom fluttered and played truant,
So I gave it him all . . . my innocent heart.
On a green bank amidst the purple irises,
And the shadow of a pine-wood across it was flung,
I gave him soft words, I gave him my kisses,
I gave him myself--myself that was so young.
On a day, long ago, (pity to remember
How the wind was soft, how the sun was warm,)--
Then it was June and now it is November,
Then I knew no evil nor thought of any harm.
A Foolish Tragedy.
In the capital of Valladolid
There lived a highborn maiden
In a white house in a steep street
With green doors and shutters,
Her lips were like scarlet poppies
And her hair like a black waterfall,
And behind her ear she wore
A flower of red geranium.
And her Spanish lover sighed
And in his love he cried,
"Heaven were nearer
If she were dearer,
She is the most wonderful and beautiful thing
In the capital of Valladolid.
My friendship for to show. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie dear,
The tears stand in these eyne.
Will you no give me a kind word
For the sake of old lang syne? "
"Oh! I will give you a kind word
Tho' I have little skill,
For the time that we were children
And played upon the hill. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lass o' gold,
Will you no give me a kiss?
My heart, I think, is like to break
If you refuse me this. "
"Alas! and if I must refuse
You will not think me bad.
That your heart should break for my sake,
In truth it makes me sad. "
"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie oh!
I will be true as steel.
Will you no give me your promised word
For the love that I do feel? "
"Indeed--indeed--I like you well
Aye, better than my brother,
But I canna give you my promised word
For--I must wait for another. "
DRAMAS.
June and November.
On a day, long ago, I was just a child,
I walked with my lover, my arm in his arm,
Half of me was sad and half with joy was wild,
The wind was so soft and the sun was so warm.
I walked with my lover to his pretty nonsense listening,
And I pressed my beating heart against my lover's side;
And tho' my voice was steady my traitor eyes were glistening,
I showed to my lover all I wished to hide.
His vows were so tender, his speech was so fluent,
He whispered his sorrow if ever we must part.
My heart in my bosom fluttered and played truant,
So I gave it him all . . . my innocent heart.
On a green bank amidst the purple irises,
And the shadow of a pine-wood across it was flung,
I gave him soft words, I gave him my kisses,
I gave him myself--myself that was so young.
On a day, long ago, (pity to remember
How the wind was soft, how the sun was warm,)--
Then it was June and now it is November,
Then I knew no evil nor thought of any harm.
A Foolish Tragedy.
In the capital of Valladolid
There lived a highborn maiden
In a white house in a steep street
With green doors and shutters,
Her lips were like scarlet poppies
And her hair like a black waterfall,
And behind her ear she wore
A flower of red geranium.
And her Spanish lover sighed
And in his love he cried,
"Heaven were nearer
If she were dearer,
She is the most wonderful and beautiful thing
In the capital of Valladolid.
