 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
HOW HE WON MILLY.
Be sure that no woman worth winning
Will suffer to bid her farewell
The lover she loves, who is bashful
And fears his affection to tell.
Be she ever so modest and timid,
If loving, true-hearted and young,
Ere in silent despair he shall leave her,
Her wit will supply him a tongue.
Will suffer to bid her farewell
The lover she loves, who is bashful
And fears his affection to tell.
Be she ever so modest and timid,
If loving, true-hearted and young,
Ere in silent despair he shall leave her,
Her wit will supply him a tongue.
295
If she love him, and know that he loves her,
But sees that his courage is weak,
Or his doubt makes him blind to her favor,
She'll give him the cue how to speak.
It was long years ago that I learned it—
(Dear memory that of my life!)
Since, but for some words that she faltered,
I had never won Milly for wife.
But sees that his courage is weak,
Or his doubt makes him blind to her favor,
She'll give him the cue how to speak.
It was long years ago that I learned it—
(Dear memory that of my life!)
Since, but for some words that she faltered,
I had never won Milly for wife.
Young Milly, the red-lipped and bright-eyed,
With golden, rebellious curls,
That ne'er would lie still when she smoothed them,
And teeth with the lustre of pearls.
And oh! the white snow of her forehead;
And oh! the clear light of her eye;
The mind that was pure as a fountain,
The soul that broke forth in her sigh.
With golden, rebellious curls,
That ne'er would lie still when she smoothed them,
And teeth with the lustre of pearls.
And oh! the white snow of her forehead;
And oh! the clear light of her eye;
The mind that was pure as a fountain,
The soul that broke forth in her sigh.
A sad life my love for her led me;
My heart-strings were all out of tune;
Her frowns were the clouds of October;
Her smiles were the sunshine of June.
And at last, in her fight for her freedom,
She told me, with fire in her eyes:
“Men are ever deceivers! I hate them,
As all maidens would, were they wise!”
My heart-strings were all out of tune;
Her frowns were the clouds of October;
Her smiles were the sunshine of June.
And at last, in her fight for her freedom,
She told me, with fire in her eyes:
“Men are ever deceivers! I hate them,
As all maidens would, were they wise!”
That last drop the goblet brimmed over,
And I said, as I sprang to my feet:
“There never was one half so cruel,
There never was one half so sweet.
How much and how madly I love you
No language is able to tell;
But I am a man. Men—you hate them!
God bless you, my darling! Farewell.”
And I said, as I sprang to my feet:
“There never was one half so cruel,
There never was one half so sweet.
How much and how madly I love you
No language is able to tell;
But I am a man. Men—you hate them!
God bless you, my darling! Farewell.”
296
With tears in my eyes from emotion,
Half-blinded, I turned me to leave,
When I felt her warm breath at my shoulder,
And her nervous hand-clutch on my sleeve;
Her face it grew redder and redder,
The hue of a peach next the sun,
And she murmured: “The men! yes, I hate them;
But, Frank—I might manage—with—one!”
Half-blinded, I turned me to leave,
When I felt her warm breath at my shoulder,
And her nervous hand-clutch on my sleeve;
Her face it grew redder and redder,
The hue of a peach next the sun,
And she murmured: “The men! yes, I hate them;
But, Frank—I might manage—with—one!”
Ah! quick with my strong arms I pressed her
To my heart, amid smiling and tears;
And there she has budded and blossomed
In beauty for many long years.
And now, when I think of that moment,
My pulses they quicken and stir;
For I know we had parted forever
Save for words that were uttered by her.
To my heart, amid smiling and tears;
And there she has budded and blossomed
In beauty for many long years.
And now, when I think of that moment,
My pulses they quicken and stir;
For I know we had parted forever
Save for words that were uttered by her.
There she sits in her chair by the window,
Scarce older to me by a day,
Though her tresses have altered to silver,
And years have flown noiseless away.
You may say that her age is near fifty,
That lines in her face I may see;
With you the lines deepen to wrinkles;
They're nothing but dimples to me.
Scarce older to me by a day,
Though her tresses have altered to silver,
And years have flown noiseless away.
You may say that her age is near fifty,
That lines in her face I may see;
With you the lines deepen to wrinkles;
They're nothing but dimples to me.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |