 | Berries & Blossoms |  |
87
MAUD.
Little Maud, my queen!
Oh! the winsome lady!
All the bright midsummer day,
Thrush and black-cap on the spray,
Sing for her so blithe and gay,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet, all your own,
Keeps for you his sweetest tone,
Singing, not in June alone,
But in bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose singing's best of these?
Oh! the winsome lady!
All the bright midsummer day,
Thrush and black-cap on the spray,
Sing for her so blithe and gay,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet, all your own,
Keeps for you his sweetest tone,
Singing, not in June alone,
But in bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose singing's best of these?
Little Maud, my queen!
Oh! the winsome lady!
Leaps her lap-dog, to and fro,
Fawning-fond her hound doth grow,
When she pats and pets them so,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet loves you still,
Be your humour what it will,
Cross or kind, or warm or chill,
June or bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose loving's best of these?
Oh! the winsome lady!
88
Fawning-fond her hound doth grow,
When she pats and pets them so,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet loves you still,
Be your humour what it will,
Cross or kind, or warm or chill,
June or bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose loving's best of these?
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