Baloo
BALOO, my sweet baby—the blossom!
I dandle’t till weary, and sigh,
With not a bare drop in my bosom
To silence its pitiful cry.
The red moon above us right rarely,
I lay on the brink of the burn,
And drank in the words which so early
Have brought me to anguish and scorn.
And had he but thought of the trouble,
And had he but thought on the pain:
Tho’ green in the blade with the stubble,
I’m fated to bleach on the plain.
Mid all our wooed maidens so many,
The bonny bright lily was I;
But now plucked and tainted, like any
Vile weed on the footway I lie.
But let anguish thus my heart rend, and
The briny tear thus my cheek lave;
The longest lane yet has an end, and
The weary sleep sound in the grave.
Baloo, my sweet baby—the blossom!—
Ah! hush—ere his life-glass is run,
The false one shall find in his bosom
A pang for the deed he has done.
Altre opere di Joseph Skipsey...
