The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride;
Sing heigh-ho!

They court from morn till eventide:
The earth shall pass, but love abide.
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE GOLDEN FISH

LOVE is a little golden fish,

Wondrous shy . . . ah, wondrous shy . .

You may catch him if you wish;

He might make a dainty dish..

But I . . .

Ah, I've other fish to fry!

For when I try to snare this prize,
Earnestly and patiently,

All my skill the rogue defies,
Lurking safe in Aimée's eyes.

So, you see,

I am caught and Love goes free!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

THE COURTIN'

GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still

Fur 'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown

An' peeked in thru' the winder,

An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side,
With half a cord o' wood in-

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The Courtin'

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran❜ther Young
Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin',

An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,

A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clear grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton,
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells—
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing

Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,

She knowed the Lord was nigher.

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An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-

All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pitty-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal... no I come dasignin"" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
Mcbby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

L'eau Dormante

Says he, "I'd better call ag'in";
Says she, "Think likely, Mister";
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An'... Wal, he up an' kissed her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o'smily roun' the lips

An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood
And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

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James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

L'EAU DORMANTE

CURLED up and sitting on her feet,
Within the window's deep embrasure,
Is Lydia; and across the street,
A lad, with eyes of roguish azure,
Watches her buried in her 'book.
In vain he tries to win a look,
And from the trellis over there
Blows sundry kisses through the air,
Which miss the mark, and fall unseen,
Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.

My lad, if you, without abuse,

Will take advice from one who's wiser,
And put his wisdom to more use

Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do,
Another's heartbreak serve for two,
You'll have a care, some four years hence,
How you lounge there by yonder fence
And blow those kisses through that screen-
For Lydia will be seventeen.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

A PRIMROSE DAME

SHE has a primrose at her breast,
I almost wish I were a Tory.
I like the Radicals the best;
She has a primrose at her breast;
Now is it chance she so is dressed,
Or must I tell a story?

She has a primrose at her breast,
I almost wish I were a Tory.

Gleason White [1852

IF

OH, if the world were mine, Love,
I'd give the world for thee!

Alas! there is no sign, Love,
Of that contingency.

Were I a king,—which isn't

To be considered now,—

A diadem had glistened

Upon that lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me,—
She hasn't, up to date,-

Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.