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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 38 pages of information about The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems by "Q".

The bold Marine he sips his whey,
        So kind: 
He sips and he sings his ballad gay,
        So kind: 
But the dame she turns toward the wall,
To wipe her tears that fall and fall,
        All so kind.

What aileth you at my song, madame,
        So kind? 
I hope that I sing no wrong, madame,
        So kind?

Or grieves it you a beggar should dine
On a bowl of whey and the good white wine,
        All so kind?

It ails me not at your ballad gay,
        So kind: 
It ails me not for the wine and whey,
        So kind: 

But it ails me sore for the voice and eyes
Of a good man long in Paradise.—­
        Ah, so kind!

You have fair children five, madame,
        So kind: 
You have fair children five, madame,
        So kind: 

Your good man left you children three;
Whence came these twain for company,
        All so kind?

“A letter came from the war, Marine,
        So kind: 
A letter came from the war, Marine,
        So kind: 
A while I wept for the good man dead,
But another good man in a while I wed,
        All so kind.”

The bold Marine he drained his glass,
        So kind: 
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
        So kind. 
He said not a word, though the tears they flowed,
But back to his regiment took the road,
        All so kind.


Before Vittoria, June 20, 1813

O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill
  The bugles blew for Spain: 
And you below the Castle Hill
  Stood in the crowd your lane. 
Then hearts were wild to watch us pass,
  Yet laith to let us go! 
While mine said, “Fare-ye-well, my lass!”
  And yours, “God keep my Jo!”

Here by the bivouac fire, above
  These fields of savage play,
I’ll lift my love to meet thy love
  Twa thousand miles away,

Where yonder, yonder by the stars,
  Nightlong there rins a burn,
And maids with lovers at the wars
  May list their wraiths’ return.

More careless yet my spirit grows
  Of fame, more sick of blood: 
But I can think of Badajoz,
  And yet that God is good. 
Beyond the siege, beyond the stour,
  Beyond the sack of towns,
I reach to pluck ae lily-floo’r
  Where leaders press for crowns.

O Mary! lily! bow’d and wet
  With mair than mornin’s rain! 
The bugles up the Lawnmarket
  Shall sound us home again.

Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands,
  And be damn’d their bitter drouth. 
With your dear face between my hands
  And the cup held to my mouth,
                           My love,
It’s clean cup to my mouth!


Small is my secret—­let it pass—­
  Small in your life the share I had,
Who sat beside you in the class,
  Awed by the bright superior lad: 
    Whom yet with hot and eager face
    I prompted when he missed his place.

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