 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
RUNAWAY BALLADS
I
Wake from thy slumbers, Isabel, the stars are in the sky,
And night has hung her silver lamp, to light our altar by;
The flowers have closed their fading leaves, and droop upon the plain,
O wake thee, and their dying hues shall blush to life again.
And night has hung her silver lamp, to light our altar by;
The flowers have closed their fading leaves, and droop upon the plain,
O wake thee, and their dying hues shall blush to life again.
In such a sacred hour as this, how beams the eye of love,
When all is mellowed shade below, and all is light above;
And oh, how soft a maiden's sigh melts on the midnight air,
When scarce a wantom zephyr breathes, to wave her silken hair.
When all is mellowed shade below, and all is light above;
And oh, how soft a maiden's sigh melts on the midnight air,
When scarce a wantom zephyr breathes, to wave her silken hair.
The rattle of the soldier's steel has left the silent hall,
The mastiff slumbers at the gate, the sentry on the wall;
And there, by many a stately barge, that rocks upon the tide,
A bark is floating on the waves and dancing by their side.
The mastiff slumbers at the gate, the sentry on the wall;
And there, by many a stately barge, that rocks upon the tide,
A bark is floating on the waves and dancing by their side.
And when before the flowing wind she spreads her eagle wings,
And like a halcyon, from her breast the shivered billow flings;
Though many a prouder pendant flies before the ocean breeze,
No keel can track her foaming path, that sweeps the sparkling seas.
And like a halcyon, from her breast the shivered billow flings;
Though many a prouder pendant flies before the ocean breeze,
No keel can track her foaming path, that sweeps the sparkling seas.
Then come to me, my lovely one, and haste we far away,
And we will reach the distant isle before the break of day;
Let not thy gentle eyes grow dim, thy rosy cheek grow pale,
For thou shalt find a beating heart beneath a warrior's mail.
And we will reach the distant isle before the break of day;
Let not thy gentle eyes grow dim, thy rosy cheek grow pale,
For thou shalt find a beating heart beneath a warrior's mail.
II
Get up! get up! Miss Polly Jones, the tandem's at the door;
Get up, and shake your lovely bones, it's twelve o'clock and more,
The chaises they have rattled by, and nothing stirs around,
And all the world, but you and I, are moving safe and sound.
Get up, and shake your lovely bones, it's twelve o'clock and more,
The chaises they have rattled by, and nothing stirs around,
And all the world, but you and I, are moving safe and sound.
I broke a drunken watchman's nap, and he began to mutter,
I gave him just a gentle tap, that helped him to the gutter;
The cur-dog growled an ugly growl, and grinned a bitter grin;
I tipped the beast a rat's-bane pill, to keep his music in.
I gave him just a gentle tap, that helped him to the gutter;
The cur-dog growled an ugly growl, and grinned a bitter grin;
I tipped the beast a rat's-bane pill, to keep his music in.
When Squaretoes stumps about the house, and doesn't find you there,
And all the folks are in a touse, my eyes! how dad will stare!
He locked and double-locked the door, and saw you safe abed,
And never dreamed a jailor's paw could scratch a booby's head.
And all the folks are in a touse, my eyes! how dad will stare!
He locked and double-locked the door, and saw you safe abed,
And never dreamed a jailor's paw could scratch a booby's head.
Come hurry! hurry! Polly Jones, it is no time to snooze;
Don't stop for t'other petticoat, nor fidget for your shoes;
I have a quilted wrapper here, your tender limbs to fold,
It's growing mighty chilly, dear, and I shall catch a cold.
Don't stop for t'other petticoat, nor fidget for your shoes;
I have a quilted wrapper here, your tender limbs to fold,
395
I've got my gouty uncle's bay, and trotting Peggy too,
I've lined their tripes with oats and hay, and now for love and you;
The lash is curling in the air, and I am at your side,
To-morrow you are Mrs. Snaggs, my bold and blooming bride.
I've lined their tripes with oats and hay, and now for love and you;
The lash is curling in the air, and I am at your side,
To-morrow you are Mrs. Snaggs, my bold and blooming bride.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |