Southern Love Songs

She is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face,

Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail or evening star
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,
If steel, or sword, or battle-field
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou swain, that gnard'st thy flock
Beneath the shadowy tree,
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge
Be half so fair as she!

In tremor, ere the morning
With Orient light is grey,
I tarried at the window
And looked for coming day.

Full in the glow of noontide
I shed a bitter tear,
And to my fond heart whispered,
“My love will soon be here.”

The night, the night is o’er me
Who gleams I shun in dread;
The day has now departed –
My dream of joy is fled.

Since for kissing thee, Minguillo,
My mother scolds me all the day,
Let me have it quickly, darling;
Give me back my kiss, I pray.

If we have done ought amiss
Let’s undo it while we may –
Quickly give me back the kiss
That she may have nought to say.

Do! She keeps so great a pother,
Chides so sharply, looks so grave;
Do, my love, to please my mother,
Give me back the kiss I gave.

Out upon you, false Minguillo!
One you give, but two you take;
Give me back the two, my darling,
Give them, for my mother’s sake.

If thou art sleeping, maiden,
Awake and open thy door,
'Tis the break of day,
and we must away,
O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.

Wait not to find thy slippers,
But come with thy naked feet;
We shall have to pass
through the dewy grass,
And waters wide and fleet.

Oh! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
⁠Far — far away! and alone along the billow?

⁠Oh! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
⁠And my head droops over thee like the willow!

⁠Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
⁠Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

⁠Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy — but to behold him!
⁠Oh! my lone bosom! — oh! my lonely Pillow!