Poor Rose
‘BEWARE! yon bird now in glee on the bough
May drop into a snare:’
So sung we when a day of the past had passed
away
But not when Alf, was near.
Not Cilla, not I, nor Bessy need sigh,
That ever he came this way;
But a worthier far than Cilia and her
Heath rued that evil day.
That hour the dire ban of Rosa began,
When Alf glode over the hill,
And hailed us each with a blink did reach
And make our heart-strings thrill.
At the brook we’d stoop’d, and the water scoop’d,
Our clean green pails into,
When a coal black rook beclouded the brook
And away o’er the hill-top flew.
We startled, raised our heads and gazed—
And ere the bird had swept
From sight, heart-light, with his blink so bright,
The youth the waters leapt.
I felt his spell, and Bessy as well,
As in her heart she knows;
But Rose—did she look at her face in the brook,
Or why in the brook look’s Rose?
The fact was bared, when the bird ensnared,
Was the village talk indeed;
But he, the youth, had the look of truth—
And who the heart can read?
No Cilla; no—not—even so—
Not Bessy more than Cill,
Tho’ she tost her head in pride, and said
What Rose remembers still.
‘I think of the glance that made your hearts dance;
But ever I think also
Of the grim black rook that darkened the brook,
And away o’er the hill did go.’
‘Nay, Bessy, nay—and forbear, I pray,
By any cold remark,
To deepen the shade that hangs o’er her head,
If Rosa’s weird be dark.
‘ ’The wilyest bird, on hedge ever heard’—
Ah, well you know the rest;
The stranger youth had the look of truth—
And looks deceive the best.
‘If love-mad driven poor Rose hath given,
What to give is woe to her,
Another more wild had been beguiled
By lures less dazzling far.’
At my sharp reply did a fierce red dye
Bemantle Bessy’s cheek,
While Rose turned as pale as the moon o’er the dale,
But never a word did speak.
With a downcast look her needles she took,
Till off our neighbour went,
When my hand she took and gave me a look,
Which worlds of meaning meant.
Her tears out-gushed—in my arms she rushed,
And kissed her Cilla, and said
What never shall pass these lips till the grass
Is green above my head.
But oft since then, and ever when
I think of Rose and her ban,
Will the sad, sad strain awake in my brain,
By which this ditty began.
‘Beware! yon bird now in glee on the bough
May drop into a snare!’
Alas, even so will the old thing go,
But when will the best beware?
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