OWEENIE. OWEENIE is fair, With auburn hair, And her eyes do quite bewilder; Of a violet hue, A deep, dark blue, Like amethysts set in silver. Above those eyes Twin arches rise, Like bridge athwart a river; And they bend to meet Those eyes so sweet, Clad each with an auburn quiver. Her brow is wide, And the rippling tide Of her lovely wave-like hair With a witching spell; As it nestles softly there. Her nose aquiline, Is curved sublime Mid cheeks of blush-rose red; While shell-like ears Hold diamond tears That sparkle by her stag-like head. Her lips like cherries Are ripe as berries Which come in the autumn-time. A treat to kiss, That I seldom miss Since I have called her mine. Then her teeth and chin, Can always win Some praise from the dullest lout; One pure as pearl, The other a curl, Which laughs in a dimple out. Such is the Face, That I love to trace, In dreams by night and day; Which won my heart To play its part, For to make her Mine alway. THE VILLAGE LANE. COME, list to my Song As we jog along, Of the dear old Village Lane; 'Tis as fair to view As the sparkling dew, Yon Stile by the Gate Is the place to wait, When the Night is clear and still; With a silv'ry ray, Through the Copse by the grassy Hill. For the one I love, She is wont to rove When the Moon smiles o'er the Mead; And her eyes are bright As the Stars at Night; While her Soul in them you read. Full oft by the Stile We linger awhile; Ere we bid the last Good-night; Then our lips do meet In a parting sweet, That thrills us through with delight. Aye, strong in her power As she's drawn to me 'Neath the old elm tree; My darling, little sweetheart, bride! Yon Cot by the Road Shall be our Abode; There will we dwell together; There her fond embrace And her kiss so chaste, Shall bind our Hearts for Ever. Composed at Brawby, May 6, 1886, after reading some of the Little Gems in a book entitled 'Father Prout's Reliques.' It is the First Song I had ever tried my hand at, and I consider it a fair specimen. THE BIRDS OF BRAWBY. 'Tis early Morn ; The East is robed in garments gray ; Lies still; 'tis scarcely Dawn of Day; With silent march invades my Room, Thus fills it with the sweet perfume Mine eyes unclose From slumbers, dreamless, sweet, profound; With wandering glance I look around,- In light and shade, luminous and obscure, The household gods and furniture Assume all shapes. Thus, half Asleep And half Awake, I dozing lie; The silver streaks the Morning Sky When suddenly I hear around, Enchanting rare, A Music Wave of Sweetest Sound Which fills the Air With Melody; And rapturous, falls in gushing rills Descending from their native Hills Melodious as a chiming bell, Whose grand, deep Song The echoes sweet by ford and fell In notes prolong. |