TO M——, ON HER BIRTHDAY.
WITH A CHESS-BOARD.
Your turn to move again, dear,
I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life;
It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear,
A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife.
An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear,
To serve ye the livelong day;
Ready in armor to fight, dear,
To live or to dee, as ye say.
Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear,
I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn—
Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear,
Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn!
“YOURS TRULY.”
“Yours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me!
How little she dreams what that would be
To him who, trembling, reads the line,—
What if, indeed, she were truly mine!
What visions those two dear words can bring
To the lonely heart that is hungering
For a single touch of her dainty hand,
One swift, shy glance he could understand,
And know that the formal greeting sent
But half concealed what the writer meant,—
That she gave, throughout the eternities,
Her own sweet self, to be truly his!
There, there!—that fire, how it smokes—what, tears?
I’ll answer her letter—
“Dear Friend, I’ve fears
Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still
I’ll come if it’s possible.
Yours truly, Will.”