Thou dost shoot thy arrow
True, with Cupid's how,
Pretty maid,
Like a chatt'ring sparrow
Wounded, is the beau,
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Pretty maid,
On whom thy fatal glance hath chanced but once to fall,
Who rises but to kneel, if perchance he rise at all,
Pretty maid.
I oftentimes do wonder
If in some time to come,
Pretty maid,
A cloud and clash of thunder
Will make thy clime become,
Pretty maid,
As drear, and dark, and gloom, as thou hast often seen
The cheerless skies of other maidens to have been,
Pretty maid.
H. D.
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Fact and Rumor.
