"Across the Fields to Anne"

'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice,
A boy that's out o' call,-

An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain
As e'er a six-fut wall.

Och, never fear, my jewel!
I'd forget ye now this minute,
If I only had a notion

O' the way I should begin it;
But first an' last it isn't known
The heap o' throuble's in it.

Meself began the night ye went
An' hasn't done it yet;

I'm nearly fit to give it up,

For where's the use to fret?

An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me

Wid mindin' to forget.

801

Moira O'Neill (18

"ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE".

How often in the summer-tide,

His graver business set aside,

Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,
As to the pipe of Pan,

Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride
Across the fields to Anne.

It must have been a merry mile,
This summer stroll by hedge and stile,
With sweet foreknowledge all the while
How sure the pathway ran
To dear delights of kiss and smile,
Across the fields to Anne.

The silly sheep that graze to-day,

I wot, they let him go his way,

Nor once looked up, as who would say: "It is a seemly man."

For many lads went wooing aye

Across the fields to Anne.

The oaks, they have a wiser look;
Mayhap they whispered to the brook:
"The world by him shall yet be shook,
It is in nature's plan;

Though now he fleets like any rook
Across the fields to Anne."

And I am sure, that on some hour
Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower,
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower
With heart of tiny span,

And bore it as a lover's dower
Across the fields to Anne.

While from her cottage garden-bed
She plucked a jasmin's goodlihede,
To scent his jerkin's brown instead;
Now since that love began,
What luckier swain than he who sped
Across the fields to Anne?

The winding path whereon I pace,

The hedgerows green, the summer's grace,

Are still before me face to face;

Methinks I almost can

Turn port and join the singing race

Across the fields to Anne.

Richard Burton [1859

PAMELA IN TOWN

THE fair Pamela came to town,

To London town, in early summer;

And up and down and round about

The beaux discussed the bright newcomer, With "Gadzooks, sir," and "Ma'am, my duty," And "Odds my life, but 'tis a Beauty!"

To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam,

Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry,

With cheeks of cream and roses blent,

With voice of lark and lip of cherry.

Pamela in Town

Then all the beaux vowed 'twas their duty
To win and wear this country Beauty.

And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit,
With whispers bold and eyes still bolder;
The warmer grew his saucy flame,

Cold grew the charming fair and colder.
"Twas "icy bosom"-"cruel beauty"-
"To love, sweet Mistress, 'tis a duty."

Then Jack Carew his arts essayed,

With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping.
Good lack! his billets bound the curls

That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping.
Next day these curls had richer beauty,
So well Jack's fervor did its duty.

Then Cousin Will came up to view
The way Pamela ruled the fashion;
He watched the gallants crowd about,
And flew into a rustic passion,—
Left "Squire, his mark," on divers faces,
And pinked Carew beneath his laces.

Alack! one night at Ranelagh

The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing;
And all the mettled bloods looked round
To see what caused that telltale flushing.
Up stepped a grizzled Poet Fellow

To dance with Pam a saltarello.

Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved,
With hand on sword and cutting glances,
That they would lead that Graybeard forth
To livelier tunes and other dances.

But who that saw Pam's eyes a-shining
With love and joy would see her pining!

And-oons! Their wrath cooled as they looked

That Poet stared as fierce as any!

He was a mighty proper man,

With blade on hip and inches many;

The beaux all vowed it was their duty
To toast some newer, softer Beauty.

Sweet Pam she bridled, blushed and smiled-
The wild thing loved and could but show it!
Mayhap some day you'll see in town

Pamela and her grizzled Poct.
Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty,
And won her faith, her love, her beauty.
Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [18

YES?

Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it—
The word spoken yesterday night?

Does that hour seem so sweet now between it
And this has come day's sober light?

Have you woke from a moment of rapture
To remember, regret, and repent,

And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your
Unthinking consent?

Who was he, last evening-this fellow

Whose audacity lent him a charm? Have you promised to wed Pulchinello?

For life taking Figaro's arm?

Will you have the Court fool of the papers,
The clown in the journalists' ring,

Who earns his scant bread by his capers,

To be your heart's king?

When we met quite by chance at the theatre
And I saw you home under the moon,

I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her
Tricks with my tongue quite so soon;

That I should forget fate and fortune

Make a difference 'twixt Sèvres and delfThat I'd have the calm nerve to importune You, sweet, for yourself.

The Prime of Life

It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious
Effrontery of that request!

But you you grew suddenly gracious,
And hid your sweet face on my breast.
Why you did it I cannot conjecture;

I surprised you, poor child, I dare say,
Or perhaps does the moonlight affect your
Head often that way?

You're released! With some wooer replace me
More worthy to be your life's light;

From the tablet of memory

efface me,

If you don't mean your Yes of last night.
But unless you are anxious to see me a
Wreck of the pipe and the cup

In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia-
Love, don't give me up!

805

Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896]

THE PRIME OF LIFE

JUST as I thought I was growing old,
Ready to sit in my easy chair,

To watch the world with a heart grown cold,
And smile at a folly I would not share,

Rose came by with a smile for me,

And I am thinking that forty year

Isn't the age that it seems to be,

When two pretty brown eyes are near.

Bless me! of life it is just the prime,

A fact that I hope she will understand;

And forty year is a perfect rhyme

To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.

These gray hairs are by chance, you see-
Boys are sometimes gray, I am told:

Rose came by with a smile for me,

Just as I thought I was getting old.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]