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Ballades and Rondeaus

by Gleeson White

175 of 325 · Contents · Download EPUB

Rondeaux of Cities

I — (Rondeau à la Boston.)

A cultured mind! Before I speak
The words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheek
    With blushes of the nodding rose
    That on thy breast in beauty blows,
I prithee satisfy my freak.

Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek?
Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak?
    Hast thou, in short, as I suppose,
          A cultured mind.

Some men require a maiden meek
Enough to eat at need the leek;
    Some lovers crave a classic nose,
    A liquid eye, or faultless pose;
I none of these, I only seek
          A cultured mind.

II — (Rondeau à la New York.)

A pot of gold! O mistress fair,
With eyes of brown that pass compare,
    Ere I on bended knee express
    The love which you already guess,
I fain would ask a small affair.

Hast thou, my dear, an ample share
Of this world’s goods? Wilt thy papa9
    Disgorge, to gild our blessedness,
          A pot of gold?

Some swains for mental graces care;
Some fall a prey to golden hair;
    I am not blind, I will confess,
    To intellect or comeliness;
Still let these go beside, ma chère,
          A pot of gold.

III — (Rondeau à la Philadelphia.)

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade!
Whose tresses mock the raven’s shade,
    Before I free this aching breast,
    I want to set my mind at rest;
’Tis best to call a spade a spade.

What was thy father ere he made
His fortune? Was he smeared with trade,
    Or does he boast an ancient crest—
          A pedigree?

Brains and bright eyes are overweighed,
For wits grow dull and beauties fade;
    And riches, though a welcome guest,
    Oft jar the matrimonial nest;
I kiss her lips who holds displayed
          A pedigree.

IV — (Rondeau à la Baltimore.)

A pretty face! O maid divine,
Whose vowels flow as soft as wine,
    Before I say upon the rack
    The words I never can take back,
A moment meet my glance with thine.

Say, art thou fair? Is the incline
Of that sweet nose an aquiline?
    Hast thou, despite unkind attack,
          A pretty face?

Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine,
The Graces were. I won’t repine
    For want of pedigree, or lack
    Of gold to banish Care the black,
If I can call forever mine
          A pretty face.

Robert Grant.

Notes

9 Pronounced papaire.

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