I like the scent of the weeds that they
And their rolling sound on the pebbly beach;
I like the touch of the salt-flavour’d air;
There is beauty, pleasure, and health in each.
A little hotel in Bellhaven stands,
Where dinners are serv’d remarkably well,
And sometimes Harry slips out of my hands
And dines with Jack at this little hotel.
I’m not very fond of the place, I own;
Ought I to mind it, if Harry’s amused?
But I feel so lonely when I’m alone,
And sometimes I feel a little ill-used.
’Tis seldom my husband deserts me
He is always home ere the clock strikes ten;
So I won’t be foolish and make a fuss,
But try to remember that men are men.
Sitting and waiting for Harry alone,
Watching the minutes, and wanting him back—
Why are you absent, my Harry, my own?
Am not I nicer than billiards and Jack?
Traitress to ask such a question! for
Thou art, thou knowest, beginning and end!
His whole life is thine—he is not to blame!
May not thy husband go out with a friend?
Thou art the false one, and he is the
Fretful and idle, unworthy thy king!
Hast thou not anything useful to do,
Thou good-for-nothing and cross little thing?
Scolding myself, I spring up from my chair,
Calling out loud that the time is not long;
March down the room with a resolute air,
Seize my guitar, and burst out into song!
Poor little girl, sitting singing alone,
Pretty guitar round a slender neck hung,
Smiles on thy lips, but a sad little moan,
Deep in a heart that is foolish and young.
To one whose footsteps fall
Upon a mountain’s height,
Earth must seem very small,
And heaven infinite.
Then why do misty tears
Conceal each lofty crest,
If earth so far appears,
So near the land of rest?
Hush! for the mists withdraw
The Hidden shines in bliss;
Who in a valley saw
A heaven-light like this?
I think when earth can speak
(She will one of these days),
That every mountain-peak
Will give a shout of praise.
I did not care for the song that I sang;
I was not thinking of mountains at all;
Tiresome and strange in mine ears the words rang—
’Heaven is infinite, earth is so small’—
Rang in that eerie monotonous way
Words sometimes will, when we don’t will one bit.
Which proves they’re alive—It is hard in the day,
But in the night who can battle with it?
And a little sob rose up in my throat—
‘Harry, Harry, Harry,’ thrill’d through the sob;
I touch’d the guitar, and its answering note
Came unexpected, and made my heart throb.