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Orellana and Other Poems

By J. Logie Robertson

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A GIFT FOR A BRIDE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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163

A GIFT FOR A BRIDE.

A gift for my bride on her birthday!
—But what shall the souvenir be?
What best of all gifts of the earth may
Remind her of me?
A ring for her delicate finger,
To pinch it a little all day?
A song in her heart that will linger
When I am away?
A chain for her neck, with a locket?
A book that her mind will engage,
And will easily go in her pocket?
A bird in a cage?

164

A volume of manuscript verses?
A flower in porcelain that blows?
A phial of scent that disperses
The attar of rose?
The frond of a fern, or a feather,
Among her fair tresses to twine?
A sprig, for her breast, of white heather,
Or pale jessamine?
A thimble? a bangle? a bonnet?
A pencil? a portrait of me?
A bracelet with AEI upon it?
A crooked bawbee?
Now which of them all shall I send her?
Indeed I might send her them all,
“With care,” “Carriage paid,” “Special tender,”
—And think it too small.

165

Suppose I just send her a letter
And sign it in silver “Your Own”?
—Bah! either I'll manage it better,
Or leave it alone!
That notion is too mediocre:
—Come, Fancy! there's something amiss!
—I have it! As I am a smoker,
I'll send her a kiss!
But how to transmit it! . . . What fairy,
Or seraph, or sylph of the air
Will come in my present quandary
My offering to bear?
I'll cleanse my mustache of tobacco,
And wait for a wind from the south
To take the dear trifle, per Bacco!
Direct from my mouth.

166

Receive it, ye breezes! And lest ye
Should lose it, or make a misdeal,
Take ten or twelve more to attest the
Devotion I feel!
Your flight is up over yon mountain
That looks o'er Strathearn to Strathtay,
Then down by the clear caller fountain;
—At Craigie you stay.
And there, to the mirthfullest lady
That ever was sad in the sun,
Deliver your trust; but be ready
To go when it's done!
—And how will ye know when ye've found her?
—Her gait, and the grace of her glance,
The beauty that brightens around her,
Will tell you at once!

167

She's true, and she's kind, and she's clever,
And pensive, and not very tall
—As high as my heart is, however—
And modest withal.
And so, unannounced, you'll enfold her;
And, ere from your wings she can slip,
You'll softly pay down, while you hold her,
My tax on her lip.