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Even then blooms the gorse—not a month of them all
But finds this true friend on his way;
And does not its cheering presence recall
An old proverb?[1]—sweet Dora, why suddenly fall
Thy blue eyes? and why turn thus away?
I'll never rob thee of a lily nor rose,
While the bonny bright gorse may be mine;
For that flower is a charter to love while it blows,
And entitles thy Lubin, wherever it grows,
To a kiss from those sweet lips of thine.
Nay, pout not, nor frown—though you thus prove the flower
E'en more emblematical yet—
For the golden bud lives in a weapon-girt bower,
All around and about her are guardians of power,
And countless spears valiantly set.
But as, when resolved the bright blossom to gain,
We value not spear head nor lance;
So when Lubin a kiss craves, sweet Dora in vain
May frown a refusal. Come, now to the train—
To the flaunting May-pole and the dance!
- ↑ "When gorse is out of blossom, kissing is out of fashion"—gorse being in bloom all the year.
