 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
328
WEEP O'ER WILL!
Ah! through what perverse translations
Shape we Nature's sweetest tongue,
Dulling all her fine narrations,
Making prose of what she sung!
Nay, with less than human feeling,
From the gentle framing ill,
And while she is love revealing,
Shaping out the evil still.
Bird cry—Whip-poor-will!
Shape we Nature's sweetest tongue,
Dulling all her fine narrations,
Making prose of what she sung!
Nay, with less than human feeling,
From the gentle framing ill,
And while she is love revealing,
Shaping out the evil still.
Bird cry—Whip-poor-will!
From that cry of bird, incessant,
Very pitiful and sad,
Mournful, tender, if not pleasant,
We have only drawn the bad.
Let us find the true translation
For a chaunt the saddest heard,
Changing all to fit relation
By a little change of word.
Bird cry—Whip-poor-will!
Very pitiful and sad,
Mournful, tender, if not pleasant,
We have only drawn the bad.
Let us find the true translation
For a chaunt the saddest heard,
Changing all to fit relation
By a little change of word.
Bird cry—Whip-poor-will!
“Whip-poor-will's” the vulgar version,
Drawing counsel, harsh and hard,
From a chaunt of matchless sorrow,
The fond Bird above the Bard.
Let the Bard the bird decypher,
Now, while fresh the burden springs—
Blending tone with proper feeling,
“Weep-o'er-will!” is what she sings.
Bird cry—Weep-o'er-will!
Drawing counsel, harsh and hard,
From a chaunt of matchless sorrow,
The fond Bird above the Bard.
Let the Bard the bird decypher,
Now, while fresh the burden springs—
Blending tone with proper feeling,
“Weep-o'er-will!” is what she sings.
Bird cry—Weep-o'er-will!
329
Ay, weep o'er Will, when in yon hillock
The Bard lies sleeping, hearing nought,
Unless, perchance, the sad cry reaches
The spirit heights of soul and thought.
Thou'lt weep, methinks, the last of any—
Of all, the only faithful still;
And never heed the vulgar many,
Who whipping long would whip him still.
Thou'lt weep o'er Will!
Bird cry—Weep-o'er-will!
The Bard lies sleeping, hearing nought,
Unless, perchance, the sad cry reaches
The spirit heights of soul and thought.
Thou'lt weep, methinks, the last of any—
Of all, the only faithful still;
And never heed the vulgar many,
Who whipping long would whip him still.
Thou'lt weep o'er Will!
Bird cry—Weep-o'er-will!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |