 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
THE MINSTREL TO HIS LADY LOVE.
A Minstrel, fan'd by Love's soft wing,
Thus to his lady-love did sing—
“Oh, would I were thy lute's sweet string,
To be so gently touch'd by thee;
Oh! never to thy gentle hand
That lute was more in sweet command
Than I should be, to understand
The slightest wish or look from thee.”
Thus to his lady-love did sing—
“Oh, would I were thy lute's sweet string,
To be so gently touch'd by thee;
Oh! never to thy gentle hand
That lute was more in sweet command
Than I should be, to understand
The slightest wish or look from thee.”
Oh! would I were thy falcon fair,
To cleave for thee the highest air,
And to my lady downward bear
The heron's wing, her plume to be:
To be cast off the bird may rue,
Yet fly—whene'er he's bid by you,
But ah, with instinct far more true,
He hears the sweet recall from thee.
To cleave for thee the highest air,
And to my lady downward bear
The heron's wing, her plume to be:
To be cast off the bird may rue,
Yet fly—whene'er he's bid by you,
But ah, with instinct far more true,
He hears the sweet recall from thee.
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Oh! happy is thy faithful hound,
To rove with thee the sylvan ground,
Around thee in wild joy to bound,
All fondly-watchful, guarding thee:
No danger deep could make him fly,
No! at thy feet he'd bravely die—
Oh! lady dear, and so would I,
For one bright tear bestow'd on me.
To rove with thee the sylvan ground,
Around thee in wild joy to bound,
All fondly-watchful, guarding thee:
No danger deep could make him fly,
No! at thy feet he'd bravely die—
Oh! lady dear, and so would I,
For one bright tear bestow'd on me.
And like thy lute, my deepest tone
Is, at thy bidding, all thine own;
Or would'st thou have me mirthful grown,
Thou need'st but give a smile to me.
And like thy hawk, thy lure should be
The dearest thing on earth to me—
Thy dog's untaught fidelity
Is not more true than mine to thee!
Is, at thy bidding, all thine own;
Or would'st thou have me mirthful grown,
Thou need'st but give a smile to me.
And like thy hawk, thy lure should be
The dearest thing on earth to me—
Thy dog's untaught fidelity
Is not more true than mine to thee!
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |