Yon pink wee rosie in my hair—
He fixed it troth-an' kissed it there!
White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky
Down by-down by.

Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry,
An' there's famous wans in Down;
Och there's rosies all a-hawkin'

Through the heart av London town!

But if I had the liftin'

Or the buyin' av a few,

I'd choose jist pink wee rosies

That's all drenchin' wid the dew-
Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears!
Och wet, wet tears!-ay, troth, 'tis years
Since we kep' rakin' in the hay

Thon day-thon day!

Agnes I. Hanrahan [18

AT THE COMEDY

LAST night, in snowy gown and glove,

I saw you watch the play
Where each mock hero won his love
In the old unlifelike way.

(And, oh, were life their little scene
Where love so smoothly ran,
How different, Dear, this world had been
Since this old world began !)

For you, who saw them gayly win

Both hand and heart away,

Knew well where dwelt the mockery in

That foolish little play.

("If love were all—if love were all,”

The viols sobbed and cried,

"Then love were best whate'er befall!”

Low, low, the flutes replied.)

"I Heard a Soldier"

And you, last night, did you forget,
So far from me, so near?

For watching there your eyes were wet
With just an idle tear!

(And down the great dark curtain fell Upon their foolish play:

But you and I knew—Oh, too well !—

Life went another way !)

Arthur Stringer [1874

66 SOMETIME IT MAY BE "
SOMETIME it may be you and I
In that deserted yard shall lie
Where memories fade away;
Caring no more for our old dreams,
Busy with new and alien themes,
The saints and sages say.

But let our graves be side by side,

So passers-by at even-tide

May pause a moment's space:

"Ah, they were lovers who lie here!

Else why these low graves laid so near,

In this forgotten place?"

Arthur Colton [1868

"I HEARD A SOLDIER"

I HEARD a soldier sing some trifle
Out in the sun-dried veldt alone:
He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle
Idly, behind a stone.

"If after death, love, comes a waking,
And in their camp so dark and still
The men of dust hear bugles, breaking
Their halt upon the hill.

907

"To me the slow and silver pealing

That then the last high trumpet pours
Shall softer than the dawn come stealing,
For, with its call, comes yours!"

What grief of love had he to stifle,
Basking so idly by his stone,
That grimy soldier with his rifle

Out in the veldt, alone?

Herbert Trench [1865

THE LAST MEMORY

WHEN I am old, and think of the old days,
And warm my hands before a little blaze,
Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire,
I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire,
One face, mysterious and exquisite;
And I shall gaze, and ponder over it,
Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought
That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought
Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows
To the last ecstacy, which is repose?

Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes?
And, musing thus among my memories,

O unforgotten! you will come to seem,
As pictures do, remembered, some old dream.
And I shall think of you as something strange,
And beautiful, and full of helpless change,
Which I beheld and carried in my heart;
But you, I loved, will have become a part
Of the eternal mystery, and love

Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above

My little fire, and shiver, being cold,

When you are no more young, and I am old.

Arthur Symons [1865

"DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS"

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

"Down by the Salley Gardens"

909

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
William Butler Yeats [1865-

THE PARTED LOVERS

SONG

From "Twelfth Night"

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true Love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty Sweeting;
Journey's end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty:
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

"GO, LOVELY ROSE"

Go, lovely Rose

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.