And when her parents have grown old,
Let her in her father's arms
Place a boy as fair as she,
With the ringlets all of gold,
And, upon her mother's knee,
A maiden deck'd with all her charms.
But I from house to house must go,
And wherever my eyes by my feet are borne,
To the muse at night and morn
For those who do or don't bestow,
The mellow words of song shall flow.
Come then, good folks, your plenty share;
O give, my prince! and maiden fair,
Be bountiful to-day.
Sooth, custom bids ye all to throw
Whole handfulls to the begging crow;
At least give something; say not, No,
And we will go our way.—J. A. St. John.
Cleobulus. (Book viii. § 60, p. 567.)
The swallow is come, and with her brings
A year with plenty overflowing;
Freely its rich gifts bestowing,
The loveliest of lovely springs.
She is come, she is come,
To her sunny home;
And white is her breast as a beam of light,
But her back and her wings are as black as night.
Then bring forth your store,
Bring it out to the door,
A mass of figs, or a stoop of wine,
Cheese, or meal, or what you will,
Whate'er it be we'll not take it ill:
Even an egg will not come amiss,
For the swallow's not nice
When she wishes to dine.
Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?
For we will not go,
Though time doth flee,
Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No.
