BLUE MOON
OH I was young an’ feared o’ pain
When I went hot-lovering down the lane.
I sipped sweet honey wi’ my red lips,
An’ I touched fire wi’ my finger-tips,
But I drew them back again—
For the withered, gray woman so old and wise,
Wi’ the queer, hushed voice an’ the listening eyes,
An’ the stone-deaf ears, who lives i’ the lane—
She stepped so soft an’ she says “Rose-Jane!
You’re eating plum porridge (ye poor wee loon!)
Eating it hot in a rare blue moon.
You’ve a dimpled face like a rosy June,
But your mouth’ll be burnt
Before you’ve learnt
The way of a man in the moon.
And then they’ll call you ‘Old Rose-Jane
Who went hot-lovering down the lane.’
Beware of the rare blue moon, Rose-Jane!”
Saints bless that woman wi’ listening eyes!
I’ve planted the sweet-briar where she lies.
She stopped my ears an’ she made me wise.
I’m pure as the virgin saints are pure—
Now never a man my pale lips lure.
But once in a blue moon, I’m not sure
That the withered gray woman, wi’ listening eyes,
Didn’t cheat me out of a rare fine prize.
Something calls to me i’ the moon,
“Rose-Jane! Rose-Jane! Come! Come soon!”