THE PEASANT'S DILEMMA.
I mean to wed the miller—maid,
His girl whose mill you see down there,
But here's the rub,—I love, and prayed
A shepherdess to be my fair.
My Fanchette is as bright as spring,
But poor as winter is her lot.
If one must do a foolish thing,
Why should it be, in sooth, for nought?
Bah! I shall wed the miller-maid
Who always makes sweet eyes at me,
Those eyes that ask in sun and shade—
Our marriage,—when is it to be?
One instant, not so fast,—reflect!
Am I quite sure of happiness
With the rich mistress I elect?
I love her not, or love far less.
Marriage, alas! is not, I own,
A tie for one day or a year;
But then consider,—Love alone
If he keep house, gives meagre cheer.
Bah! I shall wed the miller-maid
Who always makes sweet eyes at me,
Those eyes that ask in sun and shade—
Our marriage,—when is it to be?
