Little Indian, Sioux or Crow,

Little frosty Eskimo,

Little Turk or Japanee,

O! don’t you wish that you were me?

You have seen the scarlet trees

And the lions overseas;

You have eaten ostrich eggs,

And turn’d the turtles off their legs.

Such a life is very fine,

But it’s not so nice as mine:

You must often, as you trod,

Have wearied not to be abroad.

You have curious things to eat,

I am fed on proper meat;

You must dwell beyond the foam,

But I am safe and live at home.

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow,

Little frosty Eskimo,

Little Turk or Japanee,

O! don’t you wish that you were me?

A widow-bird sate mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flow’r upon the ground,

And little motion in the air,

Except the mill-wheel’s sound.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

With vassals and serfs at my side,

And of all who assembled within those walls

That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count — could boast

Of a high ancestral name;

But I always dreamt, which pleas’d me most,

That you lov’d me still the same.

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand,

That knights upon bended knee,

And with vows no maiden heart could withstand,

They pledg’d their faith to me.

And I dreamt that one of that noble host

Came forth my hand to claim;

But I also dreamt, which charm’d me most,

That you lov’d me still the same.

I feel so glad, I never had

Such joy within my heart;

I’ve been asked out, and without doubt

I’m dying to make a start.

I’ve never seen a ball, nor been

Allowed out after dark;

I’ll mash the men, nine out of ten,

Oh won’t it be a lark!

(Chorus) Only fancy if Gladstone’s there,

And falls in love with me!

If I run across Labouchere,

I’ll ask him home to tea.

I shall say to a young man gay,

If he treads upon my frock,

Randy pandy, sugardy candy,

Buy me some almond rock!

I heard in truth that General Booth

Is going to be M.C.,

And if he is, ‘twill be good “biz,”

No end of fun there’ll be.

Ma said last week, I’m not to speak

To even one young man,

But just you wait, in spite of fate,

I’ll speak to all I can.

(Chorus) Only fancy, ....

If Sir Charles Dilke sees me in silk,

To dance with me he’ll try,

I’ll sing “Tral la,” Ha! “There you are,”

Then “Wink the other eye.”

If by a “fluke” I meet a Duke,

A Marquis or an Earl,

I’ll win all three, in fact I’ll be

A regular “Giddy girl.”

(Chorus) Only fancy, . . . .

But yet from out the little hill

Oozes the slender springlet still,

And shepherd boys repair

To seek the water-flag and rush,

And plait their garlands fair;

When thou shalt find the little hill

With thy heart commune, and be still.

On old Aegina’s rock, and Hydra’s isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile.

Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss

Thy glorious gulph, unconquer’d Salamis.

Not yet; — not yet. Sol pauses on the hill;

The precious hour of parting lingers still.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands.

Curtsied when you have, and kissed,

The wild waves whist.

Foot it featly here and there,

And let the rest the burden bear.

Hark, hark,

The watchdogs bark.

Faune, nympharum fugient’ amator,

Per meos fines et aprica rura,

Lenis incedas, abeasque parvis,

Aequus alumnis.

Si tener pleno cadit haedus anno,

Larga nec desunt Veneris sodali,

Vina craterae, vetus ara multo,

Fumat odore.

Ludit herboso pecus omne campo,

Cum tibi Nonae redeunt Decembres,

Festus in pratis vacat otioso

Cum bove pagus.

Inter audaces lupus errat agnos

Spargit agres tes tibi silva frondes,

Gaudet invisam pepulisse fossor

Ter pede terram.

Trust thou thy love, if she be proud, is she not sweet?

Lay thou thy soul, full in her hands, low at her feet.

Trust thou thy love, if she be mute, is she not pure?

Fail, sun and breath, yet for thy peace, she shall endure.

O let the solid ground

Not fail beneath my feet

Before my life has found

What some have found so sweet;

Then let come what come may,

What matter if I go mad,

I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure,

Not close and darken above me

Before I am quite, quite sure

That there is one to love me;

Then let come what come may

To a life that has been so sad,

I shall have had my day.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light she loves

On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves,

To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred

To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird

And a hush with the setting moon. . . .

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Come hither the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion flower at the gate.

She is coming, my own, my dear,

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”

The white rose weeps, “She is late;”

The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;”

And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;

Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had it lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

“The fault was mine, the fault was mine;” —

Why am I sitting here so stunned and still,

Plucking the harmless wild flower on the hill?

It is this guilty hand!

And there rises ever a passionate cry, . . .

a cry for a brother’s blood,

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die.

Dead, long dead, long dead!

And my heart is a handful of dust,

And the wheels go over my head,

And my bones are shaken with pain,

For into a shallow grave they are thrust,

Only a yard beneath the street,

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,

The hoofs of the horses beat,

Beat into my scalp and my brain,

With never an end to the stream of passing feet,

Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,

Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter,

And here in the grave it is just as bad.

For I thought that the dead had peace, but it is not so;

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad?

But up and down and to and fro,

Ever about me the dead men go;

And then to hear a dead man chatter

Is enough to drive one mad. . . .

Ah me, why have they not buried me deep enough?

Is it kind to give me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?

Maybe still I am but half dead;

Then I cannot be wholly dumb;

I will cry to the steps above my head

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come

To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.