Sad gales have changed my woodland scene To russet-brown from gold and green; Cold and forlorn like me hath been The boat that carried Geraldine. On silent paths the whistler weedeth, And what his tune is no one heedeth; On hay beneath the linhay feedeth The ass that felt the hand of Edith. Oh cherished thought of Geraldine, I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen Would blow her trumpets and proclaim Fresh rhymes for that heroic name. Oh babbler gay as river stickle, Next year you'll be too old to tickle; But while my Torridge flows I'll say "Blithe Edith liked me half day." A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART I cannot forget my jo, I bid him be mine in sleep; But battle and woe have changed him so, There's nothing to do but weep. My mother rebukes me yet, And I never was meek before; His jacket is wet, his lip cold set, He'll trouble our home no more. Oh breaker of reeds that bend! Oh quencher of tow that smokes! I'd rather descend to my sailor friend Than prosper with lofty folks. I'm lying beside the gowan, My jo in the English bay; I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan, He called me his _bien-aimee_. I'll hearken to all you quote, Though I'd rather be deaf and free; The little he wrote in the sinking boat Is Bible and charm for me. A GARDEN GIRL Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you, Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail, And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail. You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest, To don in the summer time, three years ago; And now you encompass a care-stricken breast With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow. For when it was Lammastide two before this, When freshening my face after freshening my lilies, A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss, The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's. My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold, And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair. I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold, But welcome and fondness were choked in despair. I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob, We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour; For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower. The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited, The head I caressed is another's delight; And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited, At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white. TO TWO YOUNG LADIES There are, I've read, two troops of years, One troop is called the teens; They bring sweet gifts to little dears, Ediths and Geraldines.