I Will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun: The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;— But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me; And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom ’s betrothed to the bee;— But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.
Flowers
More from Poet
-
Blank Verse in Rhyme EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his...
-
How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks— Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you. I, of my “Spenser” quite bereft,...
-
Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady’s maid. But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The boatswain swore with wicked words...
-
A Pathetic Ballad BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, “Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot.” The army-surgeons made him...
-
Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying— For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly...