 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE CUSHAT.
The cushat on my limes
Her station takes bytimes
And in the middle night,
Especially when light
The season is or if the moon shine pale,
Croons out, till nigh on dawn, her melancholy tale.
Her station takes bytimes
And in the middle night,
Especially when light
The season is or if the moon shine pale,
Croons out, till nigh on dawn, her melancholy tale.
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No song it is of sleep;
Nay, rather, it to keep
The drowsy eyes unclosed
Would seem disposed;
For still it tells, with cadence hoarse and slow,
Of old disconsolate days and dreams of long ago.
Nay, rather, it to keep
The drowsy eyes unclosed
Would seem disposed;
For still it tells, with cadence hoarse and slow,
Of old disconsolate days and dreams of long ago.
Nay, cushat, is't not time
That thou shouldst change thy chime
And tune thy sorry song
Of far forgotten wrong
To some more modern ditty, bright and new?
'Twas all so long agone, belike it is not true.
That thou shouldst change thy chime
And tune thy sorry song
Of far forgotten wrong
To some more modern ditty, bright and new?
'Twas all so long agone, belike it is not true.
And when one comes to think,
For sparrow, starling, spink,
The fashion were absurd;
But for a lady bird
Of thy repute and age all night to croon!
Nay, do but take a thought. A bird and bay the moon!
For sparrow, starling, spink,
The fashion were absurd;
But for a lady bird
Of thy repute and age all night to croon!
Nay, do but take a thought. A bird and bay the moon!
Come, listen, then, to me
And let the matter be.
None ever died of love;
And thou, too, turtle-dove,
Wilt, whatsoe'er thou deemest, soon or late,
Think better of the case and take another mate.
And let the matter be.
None ever died of love;
And thou, too, turtle-dove,
Wilt, whatsoe'er thou deemest, soon or late,
Think better of the case and take another mate.
| Carol and Cadence | |