The Black-bird/The Village-Maid
For other versions of this work, see [[]].
The Village-Maid.
I would not change for cups of gold,
This little cup that you behold;
’Tis from the beach that gave a shade,
At noon-day, to my Village-Maid.
This little cup that you behold;
’Tis from the beach that gave a shade,
At noon-day, to my Village-Maid.
I would not change for Prussian loom,
This humble matting of my room;
'Tis of those very rushes twin’d,
Oft press’d by charming Rosalind.
This humble matting of my room;
'Tis of those very rushes twin’d,
Oft press’d by charming Rosalind.
I would-not change my lovely wicket,
That opens in her fav’rite thicket,
For portals proud, or tow’rs that frown,
The monuments of old renown.
That opens in her fav’rite thicket,
For portals proud, or tow’rs that frown,
The monuments of old renown.
I would not change this foolish heart,
That learns from her to joy or smart,
For his that burns with love of glory,
And loses life to live in story.
That learns from her to joy or smart,
For his that burns with love of glory,
And loses life to live in story.
Yet in themselves, my heart, my cote.
My mote, my bowl, I value not,
But only as they, one and all,
My lovely Rosalind recal.
My mote, my bowl, I value not,
But only as they, one and all,
My lovely Rosalind recal.