Читать книгу Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages онлайн

137 страница из 152

Without suspect or jealousy—

He were a churl and knew no good,

Would see her faint for lack of food,

For when she once hath felt the fit,

Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.

ssss1

Tell me not of joy: there's none,

Now my little Sparrow's gone:

He, just as you,

Would try and woo,

He would chirp and flatter me;

He would hang the wing awhile—

Till at length he saw me smile

Lord, how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then

Sporting, let it go agen;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip;

He would from my trencher feed;

Then would hop, and then would run,

And cry Philip when he'd done.

O! whose heart can choose but bleed?

O how eager would he fight,

And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.

No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark and do

What I did—now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let'em fall;

And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts

Feathered now to pierce our hearts?

A wound he may

Not, Love, convey,

Now this faithful bird is gone;