O'er some, the villanelle,
That sets the heart aglow,
Doth its enchanting spell
With lines' recurring throw;
Some weighed with wasting woe,
Gay triolets make them glad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
On chant of stately swell
With measured feet and slow,
At grave as minster bell
As vesper tolling low,
Do some their praise bestow;
Some on sestinas sad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
Envoy.
Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
Clinton Scollard.
O LADY MINE.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The birds are caroling blithe and gay
In the bourgeoning boughs that sway in air
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay:
There's a gleam of white on the vines that twine
Where your casement opes to the golden day,
O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The rills are glad that the month is May;
The dawns are bright and the eves are fair
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,
The sending buttercups spill their wine,
There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,
O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair
The bees, like ruthless bandits, prey
On the blooms that part their lips in prayer
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
From the sunny shores where the nereids play
The breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,
And I dream I hear them softly say,
"O lady mine!"