 | English Roses |  |
WINIFRED.
Rare and red, Winifred,
Winifred,
Are those rosebud lips that say
Loves and blisses
And sweet kisses
Are not meant for every day.
But the bloom, with scarlet scorn,
Hides the thorn—
We suspect no spiteful powers;
And caresses,
Like new dresses,
Sometimes pinch when they are ours.
Winifred,
Are those rosebud lips that say
Loves and blisses
And sweet kisses
Are not meant for every day.
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Hides the thorn—
We suspect no spiteful powers;
And caresses,
Like new dresses,
Sometimes pinch when they are ours.
Tears are shed, Winifred,
Winifred,
Often on your careless road
Paved with laughter;
And thereafter
Toil our lives, with weary load.
No one ever saw you grave,
Though the slave
Of your fancy for a while;
And the burden
Was his guerdon
Only, with a mocking smile.
Winifred,
Often on your careless road
Paved with laughter;
And thereafter
Toil our lives, with weary load.
No one ever saw you grave,
Though the slave
Of your fancy for a while;
And the burden
Was his guerdon
Only, with a mocking smile.
Lightly led, Winifred,
Winifred,
Is your footstep that will stray
Into angles
Odd and tangles,
From the broad and beaten way;
Eager for illicit spoil
Without toil,
Glamour of forbidden grapes,
Lessons, needless
Learned by heedless
Thirst for devious acts and scrapes.
Winifred,
Is your footstep that will stray
Into angles
Odd and tangles,
From the broad and beaten way;
Eager for illicit spoil
Without toil,
Glamour of forbidden grapes,
Lessons, needless
Learned by heedless
Thirst for devious acts and scrapes.
O that head, Winifred,
Winifred,
Posed with such unconscious art,
Stirs the fancies
Or romances
Now of many a foolish heart.
Fair and fickle you may be,
Not to me;
Others fondly talk and try,
But your graces'
Coy embraces
Open to my flattery.
Winifred,
Posed with such unconscious art,
Stirs the fancies
Or romances
Now of many a foolish heart.
Fair and fickle you may be,
Not to me;
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But your graces'
Coy embraces
Open to my flattery.
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