A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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 | A Child of the People |  |
127
MINETTE.
What's in a name? men say, Minette;
But I believe,—deny who can,—
That cogs in unseen cogs are set,
And finger-touches mould a man;
But I believe,—deny who can,—
That cogs in unseen cogs are set,
And finger-touches mould a man;
That trivial acts, remotest springs,
Each idlest word, each merriest strife,
Work out the destinies of things,
And a name colours all a life.
Each idlest word, each merriest strife,
Work out the destinies of things,
And a name colours all a life.
And yours is such a saucy name,
And so decided in its hue,
That were your nature not the same
Or like it, you would not be you.
And so decided in its hue,
That were your nature not the same
Or like it, you would not be you.
Did I not know you, I could draw
Your face, your feelings, and your fate;
For, subject to some hidden law,
Natures and names assimilate.
Your face, your feelings, and your fate;
For, subject to some hidden law,
Natures and names assimilate.
Your face is like a laughing ray
Of sudden sunlight after rain;
Your nose a trifle retroussé
That speaks perverseness in the grain;
Of sudden sunlight after rain;
Your nose a trifle retroussé
That speaks perverseness in the grain;
128
Your mouth the sweetest little rose
That ever rounded for a kiss;
Who would not snatch one, goodness knows
Ah, what a pouting mouth it is!
That ever rounded for a kiss;
Who would not snatch one, goodness knows
Ah, what a pouting mouth it is!
Your eyes are black and sharp and clear,
Like a ger-falcon's, and declare
A little vixen, void of fear,
Whose text is, “Touch me if you dare!”
Like a ger-falcon's, and declare
A little vixen, void of fear,
Whose text is, “Touch me if you dare!”
And what a figure! Straight and slim,
And bosomed like a frozen wave.
That Gaspard, how I envy him!
There's comfort though;—he'll be your slave.
And bosomed like a frozen wave.
That Gaspard, how I envy him!
There's comfort though;—he'll be your slave.
Last year you might have married me,
I was so taken with your ways,
And been a lady over sea
For the remainder of your days.
I was so taken with your ways,
And been a lady over sea
For the remainder of your days.
But now I see your choice was good.
No dreamer would have satisfied
The cravings of your southern mood;
You would have beat your bars and died.
No dreamer would have satisfied
The cravings of your southern mood;
You would have beat your bars and died.
And this to me is comfort too;—
Each pettish little grace and air,
To wild-eyed wooers ever new,
Wedded a week, were worn threadbare.
Each pettish little grace and air,
To wild-eyed wooers ever new,
Wedded a week, were worn threadbare.
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Be sure 'tis best for both of us
You once have wisdom's armour worn;
And I can write cold verses thus,
A week before your wedding morn.
You once have wisdom's armour worn;
And I can write cold verses thus,
A week before your wedding morn.
If you these verses chance to get,
How will you treat them? Who can say?
Perhaps you'll burn them in a pet;
Perhaps you'll whisk a tear away.
How will you treat them? Who can say?
Perhaps you'll burn them in a pet;
Perhaps you'll whisk a tear away.
But this at least, I'll prophesy:—
That in, at most, a fortnight's time,
You'll whisper with a mock-wet eye,—
“Read, love, the English stranger's rhyme.
That in, at most, a fortnight's time,
You'll whisper with a mock-wet eye,—
“Read, love, the English stranger's rhyme.
“Poor boy! he once was mad with love
For me; how soon men's hearts grow strange!
Alas, I wonder if you'll prove
As faithless and as ripe for change!
For me; how soon men's hearts grow strange!
Alas, I wonder if you'll prove
As faithless and as ripe for change!
“Of course you will! All men are frail
As—” here a kiss will seal your lips,
And my poor verses ride the gale,
Tossed from your scornful finger-tips.
As—” here a kiss will seal your lips,
And my poor verses ride the gale,
Tossed from your scornful finger-tips.
Ah, well-a-day! Good-bye, good-bye!
Who would not, in a week, forget
A lover fonder far than I,
Did she but bear your name, Minette!
Who would not, in a week, forget
A lover fonder far than I,
Did she but bear your name, Minette!
| A Child of the People | |