THE VALSE

  When to sweet music my lady is dancing
    My heart to mild frenzy her beauty inspires. 
  Into my face are her brown eyes a-glancing,
    And swift my whole frame thrills with tremulous fires. 
  Dance, lady, dance, for the moments are fleeting,
    Pause not to place yon refractory curl;
  Life is for love and the night is for sweeting;
    Dreamily, joyously, circle and whirl.

  Oh, how those viols are throbbing and pleading;
    A prayer is scarce needed in sound of their strain. 
  Surely and lightly as round you are speeding,
    You turn to confusion my heart and my brain. 
  Dance, lady, dance to the viol’s soft calling,
    Skip it and trip it as light as the air;
  Dance, for the moments like rose leaves are falling,
    Strikes, now, the clock from its place on the stair.

  Now sinks the melody lower and lower,
    The weary musicians scarce seeming to play. 
  Ah, love, your steps now are slower and slower,
    The smile on your face is more sad and less gay. 
  Dance, lady, dance to the brink of our parting,
    My heart and your step must not fail to be light. 
  Dance!  Just a turn—­tho’ the tear-drop be starting. 
    Ah—­now it is done—­so—­my lady, good-night!

REPONSE

  When Phyllis sighs and from her eyes
  The light dies out; my soul replies
  With misery of deep-drawn breath,
  E’en as it were at war with death.

  When Phyllis smiles, her glance beguiles
  My heart through love-lit woodland aisles,
  And through the silence high and clear,
  A wooing warbler’s song I hear.

  But if she frown, despair comes down,
  I put me on my sack-cloth gown;
  So frown not, Phyllis, lest I die,
  But look on me with smile or sigh.

MY SWEET BROWN GAL

  W’en de clouds is hangin’ heavy in de sky,
  An’ de win’s ‘s a-taihin’ moughty vig’rous by,
  I don’ go a-sighin’ all erlong de way;
  I des’ wo’k a-waitin’ fu’ de close o’ day.

  Case I knows w’en evenin’ draps huh shadders down,
  I won’ care a smidgeon fu’ de weathah’s frown;
  Let de rain go splashin’, let de thundah raih,
  Dey ‘s a happy sheltah, an’ I ‘s goin’ daih.

  Down in my ol’ cabin wa’m ez mammy’s toas’,
  ‘Taters in de fiah layin’ daih to roas’;
  No one daih to cross me, got no talkin’ pal,
  But I ‘s got de comp’ny o’ my sweet brown gal.

  So I spen’s my evenin’ listenin’ to huh sing,
  Lak a blessid angel; how huh voice do ring! 
  Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin’ erroun’,
  W’en he sees de steamin’ o’ de new ploughed groun’.

  Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas’. 
  Need n’t sing, my da’lin’, tek you’ hones’ res’. 
  Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er Sal? 
  No, I means my fiddle-dat’s my sweet brown gal!