’Tis hard to feel one’s self a fool! 
    With that same lass I went to school—­
      I then was great and wise;
    She read upon an easier book,
    And I—­I never cared to look
      Into her shy blue eyes.

    And now I know they must be there
    Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair
      That will not raise their rim: 
    If maids be shy, he cures who can;
    But if a man be shy—­a man—­
      Why then the worse for him!

    My mother cries, “For such a lad
    A wife is easy to be had
      And always to be found;
    A finer scholar scarce can be,
    And for a foot and leg,” says she,
      “He beats the country round!

    “My handsome boy must stoop his head
    To clear her door whom he would wed.” 
      Weak praise, but fondly sung! 
    “O mother! scholars sometimes fail—­
    And what can foot and leg avail
      To him that wants a tongue?”

    When by her ironing-board I sit,
    Her little sisters round me flit,
      And bring me forth their store;
    Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,
    And small sweet apples bright of hue
      And crimson to the core.

    But she abideth silent, fair,
    All shaded by her flaxen hair
      The blushes come and go;
    I look, and I no more can speak
    Than the red sun that on her cheek
      Smiles as he lieth low.

    Sometimes the roses by the latch
    Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
      Come sailing down like birds;
    When from their drifts her board I clear,
    She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
      The shyly uttered words.

    Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White
    By daylight and by candlelight
      When we two were apart. 
    Some better day come on apace,
    And let me tell her face to face,
      “Maiden, thou hast my heart.”

    How gently rock yon poplars high
    Against the reach of primrose sky
      With heaven’s pale candles stored! 
    She sees them all, sweet Lettice White;
    I’ll e’en go sit again to-night
      Beside her ironing-board!

Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now?  No sooner do I stop than you look up.  What would you have your poor old father do?  ’Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud.

M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, And heard his mother’s step across the floor.  Where did you get that song?—­’tis new to me.

  G. I bought it of a peddler.

M. Did you so?  Well, you were always for the love-songs, George.

F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm.  And if you’ll pace and sing two minutes more He needs must sleep—­his eyes are full of sleep.

  G. Do you sing, mother.

F. Ay, good mother, do; ’Tis long since we have heard you.