For Me the Blithe Ballade
Of all the songs that dwell
Where softest speech doth flow,
Some love the sweet rondel,
And some the bright rondeau,
With rhymes that tripping go
In mirthful measures clad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
O’er some, the villanelle,
That sets the heart aglow,
Doth its enchanting spell
With lines’ recurring throw;
Some weighed with wasting woe,
Gay triolets make them glad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
On chant of stately swell
With measured feet and slow,
At grave as minster bell
As vesper tolling low,
Do some their praise bestow;
Some on sestinas sad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
Envoy.
Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!
Clinton Scollard.