IN FRENCH FIELDS.
327
GATHER THE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY.
ANONYMOUS.
Said the mother Good-Weather,
To her girls as she parted,
Now be happy together
As ye dance merry-hearted;
Know, sweet flowers of delight,
Born in spring, like the rose,
In summer fade quite,
And in winter it snows.
At fifteen is the chance
For such as would dance.
At twenty I thought
Love was most charming,
But in his net caught,
My case was alarming.
A tyrant is Love,
And he holds us while dying,
As the hawk holds the dove,
'Tis all sighing and crying.
At fifteen is the chance
For such as would dance.
Amusement and Laughter
Reigned at my marriage,
But I learned soon after
My bliss to disparage.
