Six Songs

Oh, drop your eyelids down, my lady;
Oh, drop your eyelids down.
'T were well to keep your bright eyes shady
For pity of the town!
But should there any glances be,
I pray you give them all to me;
For though my life be lost thereby,
It were the sweetest death to die!

Oh, love is like an aureole
The masters used to paint,
It shines about a lover's soul
Like glories round a saint.
It sometimes shines a month or so,
It sometimes shines for years,
It sometimes fades, heigh-o! heigh-o!
And sometimes disappears.

A soft eye's drooping lid,
A witching face,
A snowy breast half-hid,
A bit of lace,
Dear lips that sweetly smile;
A dream of bliss, 
And I, a lone exile
Without a kiss.

'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine
That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine,
And spied a maid as fair as all maids be,
Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me."
So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade,
And all summer long at her window stayed;
For that is the way that honeysuckles go,
And that is the way that true loves grow.

Then the loving little honeysuckle vine
Kiss'd the little maid in the warm sunshine;
But the winter came with an angry frown,
And the false little maid shut the window down;
And the sorrowing vine on the other side
Mourned and mourned for the love that died,
And faded away in the wind and snow,--
And that is the way that some loves go.

Now what is this, my daughter dear,
Upon thy cheek so fair?
'Tis but a kiss, my mother dear,
Kind fortune sent it there;
It was a courteous stranger-man
That gave it unto me,
And it is passing red, because
It was the last of three.

A kiss, indeed, my daughter dear!
I marvel in surprise!
Such conduct with a stranger-man,
I fear me, was not wise.
Me-thought the same, my mother dear,
And so at three forbore,
Although the courteous stranger-man 
Vowed he had many more.

Now prithee, daughter, quickly go
And bring the stranger here,
And bid him hie and bid him fly
To me, my daughter dear;
For times be very, very hard,
And blessings eke so rare,
I fain would meet a stranger-man
That hath a kiss to spare.

Fair stream, whose arms from snow above
About the mountains twine,
Would that the arms of one I love,
Were clasped as close as thine.
For as thy ripples, crest on crest,
Print kisses on thy shore,
So would I clasp her to my breast,
And kiss her o'er and o'er.