Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
[Dear Duchess]
Dear Duchess,
I hope that your grace will permit
Your servant in exile to scribble a bit:
Yet hope not to find an amusing detail
Of the joys of the country—pigs, poultry, and ale;
I fain would amuse you; but what can I do?
I'm dull, but remember I'm absent from you.
I walk in the fields with the cows and the sheep,
I struggle through ditches both dirty and deep;
I gaze on the prospect, the mountains of Wales,
The Severn besprinkled with snowy white sails;
The cottages, too, with pretty spring flowers,
And Thornbury Castle with turreted towers;
But where is Rosetta, the Queen of the May?
With form so bewitching, with spirits so gay,
And with eyes in whose gentle expression we find
The beauty that beams from a beautiful mind.
I hope that your grace will permit
Your servant in exile to scribble a bit:
Yet hope not to find an amusing detail
Of the joys of the country—pigs, poultry, and ale;
I fain would amuse you; but what can I do?
I'm dull, but remember I'm absent from you.
I walk in the fields with the cows and the sheep,
I struggle through ditches both dirty and deep;
I gaze on the prospect, the mountains of Wales,
The Severn besprinkled with snowy white sails;
The cottages, too, with pretty spring flowers,
And Thornbury Castle with turreted towers;
But where is Rosetta, the Queen of the May?
With form so bewitching, with spirits so gay,
And with eyes in whose gentle expression we find
The beauty that beams from a beautiful mind.
Ah! where is Rosetta? in pleasure's gay path,
She roves in the Crescent, the idol of Bath;
While I look on donkies, or curly-tailed pigs,
She gazes on lovers who rumble in gigs,
Or those who on foot approach enviably near,
And breathe the soft language of love in her ear.
And does she forget me? Fly, Ruby Heart, fly!
And say, if she smiles upon others—I die:
Bid her seek the back drawing-room, there she will see
The Beacon that ought to remind her of me.
Go, show her the roses I gave her, as yet
They cannot be withered, and can she forget?
Go teach her white fingers to touch my guitar,
And tell her to think that its cadences are
The voices of sweet little seraphs who say,
Forget not poor Felix who sighs far away.
She roves in the Crescent, the idol of Bath;
While I look on donkies, or curly-tailed pigs,
She gazes on lovers who rumble in gigs,
Or those who on foot approach enviably near,
And breathe the soft language of love in her ear.
And does she forget me? Fly, Ruby Heart, fly!
And say, if she smiles upon others—I die:
Bid her seek the back drawing-room, there she will see
The Beacon that ought to remind her of me.
20
They cannot be withered, and can she forget?
Go teach her white fingers to touch my guitar,
And tell her to think that its cadences are
The voices of sweet little seraphs who say,
Forget not poor Felix who sighs far away.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |