Sometimes the roses by the latch
Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
Come sailing down like birds;
When from their drifts her board I clear,
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
The shyly uttered words.
Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White
By daylight and by candlelight
When we two were apart.
Some better day come on apace,
And let me tell her face to face,
"Maiden, thou hast my heart."
How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored!
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White;
I'll e'en go sit again to-night
Beside her ironing-board!
Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now?
No sooner do I stop than you look up.
What would you have your poor old father do?
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud.
M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, And heard his mother's step across the floor. Where did you get that song?—'tis new to me.
G. I bought it of a peddler.
M. Did you so? Well, you were always for the love-songs, George.
F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more He needs must sleep—his eyes are full of sleep.
G. Do you sing, mother.
F. Ay, good mother, do;
'Tis long since we have heard you.