Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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THE MAD GIRL'S SONG. |
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 | Juvenilia |  |
THE MAD GIRL'S SONG.
September 11, 1800.
The lily enamels the vale,
And roses they purple above;
But how can their glories prevail
With a smile from the lips of my Love?
But my Love, he was false and unkind,
When he bade me depart from the grove:
And I'll go: for I have not a mind,
That will laugh at the frowns of my Love.
And roses they purple above;
But how can their glories prevail
With a smile from the lips of my Love?
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When he bade me depart from the grove:
And I'll go: for I have not a mind,
That will laugh at the frowns of my Love.
I'll pick up the flow'rs that are dead,
And deck all my bosom so gay,
That Love shall come patting my head,
And steal all their blossoms away.
But, no; he sha'nt rob me of these,
Refusal his wishes shall prove;
For he would not, my passions to please,
Inspire the cold breast of my Love.
And deck all my bosom so gay,
That Love shall come patting my head,
And steal all their blossoms away.
But, no; he sha'nt rob me of these,
Refusal his wishes shall prove;
For he would not, my passions to please,
Inspire the cold breast of my Love.
I will visit the Cypress so sad,
That hangs o'er the dark shadow'd grave;
And I know, tho' they tell me I'm mad,
That I'll tear off its branches to wave.
O, and then a sweet garland I'll twine,
And shew all my friends how I wove;
And all, but the leaves shall be mine,
For I'll give all the green to my Love.
That hangs o'er the dark shadow'd grave;
And I know, tho' they tell me I'm mad,
That I'll tear off its branches to wave.
O, and then a sweet garland I'll twine,
And shew all my friends how I wove;
And all, but the leaves shall be mine,
For I'll give all the green to my Love.
But my Love, I'm afraid, wont be press'd
To take the poor gift, tho' so smart:
For he scorn'd this fond fluttering breast,
And all the warm wealth of my heart.
Then I'll keep it and twine in my hair
The green, and the boughs that I wove;
And when it shall fade away there,
Sing dirges to it and my Love.
To take the poor gift, tho' so smart:
For he scorn'd this fond fluttering breast,
And all the warm wealth of my heart.
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The green, and the boughs that I wove;
And when it shall fade away there,
Sing dirges to it and my Love.
| Juvenilia | |