Riley Love-Lyrics | Page 8

I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?
You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;?And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:?Like her, too, about livin_' here,--because _she couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.?I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! And now yer--how old air_ you? W'y, child, not "_twenty!" When? And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? ... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!?There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)?Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
[Illustration: (NOTHIN' TO SAY)]
[Illustration: (IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TITLE)]
IKE WALTON'S PRAYER
I crave, dear Lord,?No boundless hoard?Of gold and gear,?Nor jewels fine,?Nor lands, nor kine,?Nor treasure-heaps of anything--?Let but a little hut be mine?Where at the hearthstone I may hear
The cricket sing,?And have the shine?Of one glad woman's eyes to make,?For my poor sake,?Our simple home a place divine;--?Just the wee cot--the cricket's chirr--?Love, and the smiling face of her.
I pray not for?Great riches, nor?For vast estates, and castle-halls,--?Give me to hear the bare footfalls?Of children o'er?An oaken floor,?New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread?With but the tiny coverlet?And pillow for the baby's head;?And pray Thou, may?The door stand open and the day?Send ever in a gentle breeze,?With fragrance from the locust-trees,?And drowsy moan of doves, and blur?Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,?With afterhushes of the stir?Of intermingling sounds, and then?The good-wife and the smile of her?Filling the silences again--
The cricket's call,?And the wee cot,?Dear Lord of all,?Deny me not!
I pray not that?Men tremble at?My power of place?And lordly sway,--?I only pray for simple grace?To look my neighbor in the face?Full honestly from day to day--?Yield me his horny palm to hold,
And I'll not pray?For gold;--?The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,?It hath the kingliest smile on earth--?The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,?Hath never need of coronet.
And so I reach,?Dear Lord, to Thee,?And do beseech?Thou givest me?The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,?Love, and the glad sweet face of her.
[Illustration: (IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TAILPIECE)]
ILLILEO
Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales--?The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails; And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.
Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,?With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone?So mystically, musically mellow as your own.
You whispered low, Illileo--so low the leaves were mute,?And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.
Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,?What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?-- Let them reeling reach to win me--even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward!--I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!
And blossoms should grow odorless--and lilies all aghast--?And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.--?So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.
Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws?Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,?A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose?Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.
[Illustration: (ILLILEO)]
[Illustration: (WIFE-BLESS��D, THE)]
THE WIFE-BLESS��D
I
In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur,?Lorn-faced and long of hair--?In youth--in youth he painted her?A sister of the air--?Could clasp her not, but felt the stir?Of pinions everywhere.
II
She lured his gaze, in braver days,?And tranced him sirenwise;?And he did paint her, through a haze?Of sullen paradise,?With scars of kisses on her face?And embers in her eyes.
III
And now--nor dream nor wild conceit--?Though faltering, as before--?Through tears he paints her, as is meet,?Tracing the dear face o'er?With lilied patience meek and sweet?As Mother Mary wore.
MY MARY
My Mary, O my Mary!?The simmer-skies are blue;?The dawnin' brings the dazzle,?An' the gloamin' brings the dew,--?The mirk o' nicht the glory?O' the moon, an' kindles, too,?The stars that shift aboon the lift.--?But nae thing brings me you!
Where is it, O my Mary,?Ye are biding a' the while??I ha' wended by your window--?I ha' waited