Читать книгу Heart Songs - Jean Blewett - Страница 5

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A STEP on the walk she’s waiting to hear—

Waiting—waiting—

There’s a frown on her face—pouting ’tis clear,

Ah, someone is late in coming I fear.

All lovers are very fickle, my dear,

Waiting, waiting!

Only last week he was praising up Nell—

Praising—praising—

Saying her voice was clear as a bell,

Thinking her fairer, and who is to tell

All that he said as they walked through the dell?

Praising, praising!

Perhaps he is with her this summer night—

Who knows? Who knows?

Perhaps he is holding her hand so white,

Perhaps he is watching her eyes so bright,

Perhaps he is wooing with all his might,

Who knows? Who knows?

Perhaps he is saying, “I love you best!”

Who cares? Who cares?

No need to carry a weight on one’s breast,

No need to worry and lose one’s rest,

Life is a comedy, love is a jest,

Who cares? Who cares?

What if he has quite forgotten to keep

Old ways—old ways—

There’s a path where the silver moonbeams creep,

And the tangled flowers have fallen asleep,

And the dew is heavy—the clover deep—

Old ways—old ways!

He’s not coming to-night, no need to wait,

Ah me! Ah me!

Hark, the clock is chiming the hour of eight,

And once on a time he railed at the fate

That kept him, if only a half-hour late—

Ah me! Ah me!

But who comes here with a swinging stride?

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Turns she away in her pique and pride,

Turns she away, till he says at her side,

“There’s but one for me in the world so wide!”

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Now in the blossoms the beaded dew slips,

Sweetheart! Sweetheart!

Someone is kissing two tremulous lips,

And there lingers no sign of the past eclipse,

Down in the clover a drowsy bee sips,

Sweetheart! Sweetheart!