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4i6 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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LITTLE CHILD, I CALL THEE
From the Irish
L
ITTLE child, I call thee fair, Clad in hair of golden hue, Every lock in ringlets falling Down, to almost kiss the dew.
Slow gray eye and languid mien, Brows as thin as stroke of quill,
Cheeks of white with scarlet through them, Och ! it's through them I am ill.
Luscious mouth, delicious breath, Chalk-white teeth, and very small,
Lovely nose and little chin,
White neck, thin—she is swan-like all.
Pure white hand and shapely finger, Limbs that linger like a song ;
Music speaks in every motion
Of my sea-mew warm and young.
Rounded breasts and lime-white bosom, Like a blossom, touched of none,
Stately form and slender waist, Far more graceful than the swan.
Alas for me ! I would I were
With her of the soft-fingered palm,
In Waterford to steal a kiss,
Or by the Liss whose airs are balm. |
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