Sunday up the River.
107
'Faith your kiss has made it so sweet at the brim
I could go on supping for ever!
We'll pocket the pistol: And Tim, you limb,
May this craturr abandon you never!
IX.
Came my Love's sad eyes to my youth;
Wan and dim with many a tear,
But the sweeter for that in sooth:
Wet and dim,
Tender and true,
Violet eyes
Of the sweetest blue.
Like pansies dark i' the June o' the year
Grow my Love's glad eyes to my prime;
Rich with the purple splendour clear
Of their thoughtful bliss sublime:
Deep and dark,
Solemn and true,
Pansy eyes
Of the noblest blue.
