The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 71

As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his t.i.thes Of death--in warlike cars: While Peggy, peaceful G.o.ddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town, As right and left they fly;-- While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far,-- For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is. .h.i.t from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming G.o.d of Love!

While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-backed car.

O, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach-and-four, and goold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist,-- While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar, O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh,-- Though it beat in a low-backed car!

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN

The shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door.

"G.o.d save all here!" my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; "G.o.d save you kindly!" quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soil black eyes, Her fluttering curtsey takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.

Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone, And left the house in charge with her.

But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us, in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of b.u.t.ter,--it gilds all my rhyme!

And, while we ate the grateful food (With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind.

Kind wishes both our souls engaged, From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought,--we stood and pledged The modest rose above Loch Dan.

"The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary,--bless those budding charms!-- Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!"

She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have naught to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger-men.

Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.

Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,-- 'Tis all in vain,--she can't but smile!

Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face,--I see it yet,-- And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget

The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light; The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight,

The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,-- The rosy cheek that won't be still:-- O, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill?

For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again!

Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886]

MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG

Frowned the Laird on the Lord: "So, red-handed I catch thee?

Death-doomed by our Law of the Border!

We've a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee: Who trespa.s.ses--hangs: all's in order."

He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant: Then the Laird's dame: "Nay, Husband, I beg!

He's comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant --If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!"

"No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry: Grant rather the gallows!" laughed he.

"Foul fare kith and kin of you--why do you tarry?"

"To tame your fierce temper!" quoth she.

"Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week: Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders: Who lion-like roars, now mouse-fashion will squeak, And 'it rains' soon succeed to 'it thunders.'"

A week did he bide in the cold and dark --Not hunger: for duly at morning In flitted a la.s.s, and a voice like a lark Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still ye're scorning?

"Go hang, but here's parritch to hearten ye first!"

"Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast within some Such music as yours, mine should match it or burst: No frog-jaws! So tell folk, my Winsome!"

Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's door set wide, Out he marched, and there waited the la.s.sie: "Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for a bride!

Consider! Sky's blue and turf's gra.s.sy:

"Life's sweet; shall I say ye wed Muckle-mouth Meg?"

"Not I," quoth the stout heart: "too eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's egg: Shall I let it munch mine? Never, Dearie!"

"Not Muckle-mouth Meg? Wow, the obstinate man!

Perhaps he would rather wed me!"

"Ay, would he--with just for a dowry your can!"

"I'm Muckle-mouth Meg," chirruped she.

"Then so--so--so--so--" as he kissed her apace-- "Will I widen thee out till thou turnest From Margaret Minnikin-mou', by G.o.d's grace, To Muckle-mouth Meg in good earnest!"

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG

"Oh, what hae ye brought us hame now, my brave lord, Strappit flaught owre his braid saddle-bow?

Some bauld Border reiver to feast at our board, An' harry our pantry, I trow.

He's buirdly an' stalwart in lith an' in limb; Gin ye were his master in war The field was a saft eneugh litter for him, Ye needna hae brought him sae far.

Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again, An' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher game."

"Hoot, whisht ye, my dame, for he comes o' gude kin, An' boasts o' a lang pedigree; This night he maun share o' our gude cheer within, At morning's gray dawn he maun dee.

He's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud Harden Ha', Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep; But now he is snug in auld Elibank's paw, An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep.