I have heard a robin singing
    When the boughs were brown and bare,
  And the chilling hand of winter
  Scattered jewels through the air. 
  And in spite of dates and seasons,
    It was always spring, I know,
  When I loved Lucy Landman
    In the days of long ago.

  Ah, my little Lucy Landman,
    I remember you as well
  As if ’t were only yesterday
    I strove your thoughts to tell,—­
  When I tilted back your bonnet,
    Looked into your eyes so true,
  Just to see if you were loving
    Me as I was loving you.

  Ah, my little Lucy Landman
    It is true it was denied
  You should see a fuller summer
    And an autumn by my side. 
  But the glance of love’s sweet sunlight
    Which your eyes that morning gave
  Has kept spring within my bosom,
    Though you lie within the grave.

THE GOURD

  In the heavy earth the miner
    Toiled and laboured day by day,
  Wrenching from the miser mountain
    Brilliant treasure where it lay. 
  And the artist worn and weary
    Wrought with labour manifold
  That the king might drink his nectar
    From a goblet made of gold.

  On the prince’s groaning table
    Mid the silver gleaming bright
  Mirroring the happy faces
    Giving back the flaming light,
  Shine the cups of priceless crystal
    Chased with many a lovely line,
  Glowing now with warmer colour,
    Crimsoned by the ruby wine.

  In a valley sweet with sunlight,
    Fertile with the dew and rain,
  Without miner’s daily labour,
    Without artist’s nightly pain,
  There there grows the cup I drink from,
    Summer’s sweetness in it stored,
  And my lips pronounce a blessing
    As they touch an old brown gourd.

  Why, the miracle at Cana
    In the land of Galilee,
  Tho’ it puzzles all the scholars,
    Is no longer strange to me. 
  For the poorest and the humblest
    Could a priceless wine afford,
  If they ’d only dip up water
    With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.

  So a health to my old comrade,
    And a song of praise to sing
  When he rests inviting kisses
    In his place beside the spring. 
  Give the king his golden goblets,
    Give the prince his crystal hoard;
  But for me the sparkling water
    From a brown and brimming gourd!

THE KNIGHT

  Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on
    (And he wields it well, I ween);
  He ’s on his steed, and away has gone
    To the fight for king and queen. 
  What tho’ no edge the broadsword hath? 
  What tho’ the blade be made of lath? 
    ’T is a valiant hand
    That wields the brand,
  So, foeman, clear the path!