Duet
from Preludes to a Penny Reading
She.
WHILE he dreams, mine old grand sire,
And yon red logs glow,
Honey, whisper by the fire,
Whisper, honey low.
He.
Honey, high’s yon weary hill,
Stiff’s yon weary loam;
Lacks the work o’ my goodwill,
Fain I’d take thee home.
O how much longer, and longer, and longer,
An’ how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.
She.
Honey, bide, the time’s awry,
Bide awhile, let be.
He.
Take my wage then, lay it by,
Till 't come back with thee.
The red money, the white money,
Both to thee I bring—
She.
Bring ye ought beside, honey?
He.
Honey, ay, the ring.
Duet.
But how much longer, and longer, and longer,
O how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.
