What Can It Mean?

(Written for Miss Poole, and sung by her in the character of cowslip.)




I'm much too young to marry,
    For I am only seventeen;
Why think I, then, of Harry?
    What can it mean--what can it mean?

Wherever Harry meets me,
    Beside the brook or on the green,
How tenderly he greets me!
    What can it mean--what can it mean?

Whene'er my name he utters,
    A blush upon my cheek is seen!--
His voice my bosom flutters!--
    What can it mean--what can it mean?

If he but mentions Cupid,
    Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen,"
I sigh, and looks so stupid!--
    What can it mean--what can it mean?

Oh, mercy! what can ail me?
    I'm growing wan and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!
    What can it mean--what can it mean?

I'm not in love!--No!--Smother
    Such a thought at seventeen!
I'll go and ask my mother--
    "What can it mean--what can it mean?"

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Oh, This Love!

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Song of Marion's Men.

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The Millionaire.

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The Hero's Legacy.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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The Deserted Bride.

Suggested by a scene in the play of the hunchback.


Inscribed to James Sheridan Knowles.




"Love me!--No.--He never loved me!"
Else he'd sooner die than stain
One so fond as he has proved me
With the hollow world's disdain.
False one, go--my doom is spoken,
And the spell that bound me broken.

Wed him!--Never.--He has lost me!--
Tears!--Well, let them flow!--His bride?
No.--The struggle life may cost me!
But he'll find that I have pride!
Love is not an idle flower,
Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Title, land, and broad dominion,
With himself to me he gave;
Stooped to earth his spirit's pinion,
And became my willing slave!
Knelt and prayed until he won me--
Looks he coldly upon me?

Ingrat...

George Pope Morris

Will Nobody Marry Me?

Heigh-ho! for a husband!--Heigh-ho!
    There's danger in longer delay!
Shall I never again have a beau?
    Will nobody marry me, pray!
I begin to feel strange, I declare!
    With beauty my prospects will fade--
I'd give myself up to despair
    If I thought I should die an old maid!

I once cut the beaux in a huff--
    I thought it a sin and a shame
That no one had spirit enough
    To ask me to alter my name.
So I turned up my nose at the short,
    And cast down my eyes at the tall;
But then I just did it in sport--
    And now I've no lover at all!

These men are the plague of my life:
    'Tis hard from so many to choose!
Should any one wish for a wife,
    Could I have the heart to refuse?
I don't know--for none have prop...

George Pope Morris

Her Eyes Are Wild

I

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

II

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

III

"A fire was once within my brain;
And in ...

William Wordsworth

Ballad.

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
Till the cow said "I die," and the goose ask'd "Why?"
And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard -
The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;

Charles Stuart Calverley

The Gardener

The Text of this pretty little song is taken from Kinloch's MSS., where it is in James Beattie's handwriting. In Five Excellent New Songs, printed at Edinburgh in 1766, there is an older but much corrupted version of this song, confused with two other songs, a 'Thyme' song and the favourite 'I sowed the seeds of love.' It is printed as two songs, The New Lover's Garland and The Young Maid's Answer, both with the following refrain:--

    'Brave sailing here, my dear,
        And better sailing there,
    And brave sailing in my love's arms,
        O if I were there!'


The Story is so slight that the song can scarcely be counted as a narrative. But it is one of the lyrical dialogues covered by the word 'ballad,' and was not ruled out by Professor Child. There seems to be a loss...

Frank Sidgwick

The First Quarrel

I.
Wait a little, you say, you are sure it ll all come right,
But the boy was born i trouble, an looks so wan an so white:
Wait! an once I ha waitedI hadnt to wait for long.
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry.No, no, you are doing me wrong!
Harry and I were married: the boy can hold up his head,
The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man was dead;
I ha workd for him fifteen years, an I work an I wait to the end.
I am all alone in the world, an you are my only friend.

II.
Doctor, if you can wait, Ill tell you the tale o my life.
When Harry an I were children, he calld me his own little wife;
I was happy when I was with him, an sorry when he was away.
An when we playd together, I loved him better than play;
He workt me the daisy chainhe ma...

Alfred Lord Tennyson