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172
SUN AND WIND: MAID DAFFODIL'S SONG.
“The June rose hath her lover,”
Pipes Robin on the tree;
“All day he bends above her,
A knight clad goldenly.
And O his words are tender,
And O his gifts are free;
And yet for all his splendour,
How faithless he can be!
Pipes Robin on the tree;
“All day he bends above her,
A knight clad goldenly.
And O his words are tender,
And O his gifts are free;
And yet for all his splendour,
How faithless he can be!
“I heard him,” Robin's saying,
“Make love—how long ago?—
To a maid that goes a-maying
When every leaf's in blow.
Her name is Hawthorn Blossom;
She's hued like pinky snow;
She carries in her bosom
The reddest fruits that grow.
“Make love—how long ago?—
To a maid that goes a-maying
When every leaf's in blow.
Her name is Hawthorn Blossom;
She's hued like pinky snow;
She carries in her bosom
The reddest fruits that grow.
173
“And many another lady
With faithless words he'll woo,
When orchard boughs are shady,
And summer skies are blue;
The lily, white and saintly,
Forgets her nun-like hue,
And blushes meek and faintly
To hear him woo and sue.
With faithless words he'll woo,
When orchard boughs are shady,
And summer skies are blue;
The lily, white and saintly,
Forgets her nun-like hue,
And blushes meek and faintly
To hear him woo and sue.
“But your knight is no rover,
O golden girl,” he sings;
“For the North Wind's your lover,
And he's the heir of kings.
When in his rough embraces
He crushed your golden wings,
And kissed your golden graces,
His vows were truest things.”
O golden girl,” he sings;
“For the North Wind's your lover,
And he's the heir of kings.
When in his rough embraces
He crushed your golden wings,
And kissed your golden graces,
His vows were truest things.”
For joy, O redbreast bonny,
I dance below the trees;
Your song is sweet as honey,
And brings me sweetest ease
If I were dead to-morrow,
He'd fly to Northern seas,
And cry his lonely sorrow
To bleakest Hebrides.
I dance below the trees;
Your song is sweet as honey,
And brings me sweetest ease
If I were dead to-morrow,
He'd fly to Northern seas,
And cry his lonely sorrow
To bleakest Hebrides.
174
His heart none else possesses,
When on my gown of gold
And on my yellow tresses
Lies down the chilly mould.
No fickle false deceiver
My maiden heart doth hold;
He loves and loves for ever,
And blows not hot and cold.
When on my gown of gold
And on my yellow tresses
Lies down the chilly mould.
No fickle false deceiver
My maiden heart doth hold;
He loves and loves for ever,
And blows not hot and cold.
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