Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad, And love me if you like. I shall not hear the door shut Nor the knocker strike. Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts, And wed me if you will. I’d make a man a good wife, Sensible and still. And why should I be cold, my lad, And why should you repine, Because I love a dark head That never will be mine? I might as well be easing you As lie alone in bed And waste the night in wanting A cruel dark head. You might as well be calling yours What never will be his, And one of us be happy. There’s few enough as is. HUMORESQUE “Heaven bless the babe!” they said. “What queer books she must have read!” (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) “Little does she guess to-day What the world may be!” they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.) THE POND In this pond of placid water, Half a hundred years ago, So they say, a farmer’s daughter, Jilted by her farmer beau, Waded out among the rushes, Scattering the blue dragon-flies; That dried stick the ripple washes Marks the spot, I should surmise. Think, so near the public highway, Well frequented even then! Can you not conceive the sly way,-- Hearing wheels or seeing men Passing on the road above,-- With a gesture feigned and silly, Ere she drowned herself for love, She would reach to pluck a lily? THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER “Son,” said my mother, When I was knee-high, “You’ve need of clothes to cover you, And not a rag have I. “There’s nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with Nor thread to take stitches. “There’s nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman’s head Nobody will buy,” And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall, “Son,” she said, “the sight of you Makes your mother’s blood crawl,-- “Little skinny shoulder-blades Sticking through your clothes! And where you’ll get a jacket from God above knows. “It’s lucky for me, lad, Your daddy’s in the ground, And can’t see the way I let His son go around!” And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall. When the winter came, I’d not a pair of breeches Nor a shirt to my name. I couldn’t go to school, Or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys Passed our way. “Son,” said my mother, “Come, climb into my lap, And I’ll chafe your little bones While you take a nap.” And, oh, but we were silly For half an hour or more, Me with my long legs Dragging on the floor, A-rock-rock-rocking To a mother-goose rhyme! Oh, but we were happy For half an hour’s time! But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say To hear my mother singing me To sleep all day, In such a daft way? Men say the winter Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce, And food was dear.