 | Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series |  |
I
O my heart! what a coil is here!Laurie, why will ye count me dear!
Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail,
With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail,
For ye sing like a woodland nightingale.
And there's no sense in it under the sun;
For of three that woo I can take but one,
So what's to be done—what's to be done?
And
There's no sense in it under the sun.
II
Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign partsCome home you'll choose among kinder hearts.
Forget, forget, you're too good to hold
A fancy 'twere best should faint, grow cold,
And fade like an August marigold;
For of three that woo I can take but one,
And what's to be done—what's to be done?
There's no sense in it under the sun.
And
Of three that woo I can take but one.
III
Geordie, Geordie, I count you true,Though language sweet I have none for you.
68
When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill
Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil.
For what's to be done—what's to be done?
Of three that woo I must e'en take one,
Or there's no sense in it under the sun,
And
What's to be done—what's to be done?
(aside).
What's to be done, indeed!
Wife
(aside).
Done! nothing, love.
Either the thing has done itself, or they
Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam?
Well, now they have him.
[More tuning heard outside.
Mrs. J.
(aside).
Live and let live's my motto.
Mrs. T.
So 'tis mine.
Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face?
He's had his turn. He never gave these lights,
Cut his best flowers—
Mrs. S.
(aside).
He takes no pride in us.
Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut.
Mrs. J.
(rising).
I ask your pardon truly, that I do—
La! but the window—there's a parlous draught;
The window punishes rheumatic folk—
We'd have it shut, sir.
Others.
Truly, that we would.
V.
Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall.
[The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked attention.
| Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series | |