Poor Lisette
SADLY the quails in the cornland pipe,
Yellow the harvest is bending ripe,
Gayly the children each other greet,
Wandering down through the village street.
By her garden gate leans poor Lisette.
“Her lover,” they whisper, “comes not yet.”
She looks afar to the edge of the sky,
Where blue and misty the mountains lie.
What sudden echoes of fife and drum
Down the long, dim, winding valley come!
Oh, bring they news for the poor Lisette,
Rapture at last, or a life’s regret?
High ring the bugle notes so sweet,
Nearer the rhythmic tramp of feet, —
What tempest rushes to clasp Lisette,
With lips so warm and with eyes so wet!
She is safe in her lover’s arms at last;
A dreary dream is the wretched past;
The music of joy in her glad heart plays,
And morning dawns in her radiant face:
While clearly the quails in the cornland pipe,
And silent the harvest is bending ripe,
And the children shout to the fife and drum
That pain is over and peace is come.
