were my youngest, and, what's more
Your father loved to hear you sing—he did,
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune
From the other.

  F. No, he got his voice from you:
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep.

G. What must I sing?

  F. The ballad of the man
That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.

  G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves;
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off.
And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in:
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs,
And let's to supper shortly.

[Sings.]

    My neighbor White—we met to-day—
    He always had a cheerful way,
      As if he breathed at ease;
    My neighbor White lives down the glade,
    And I live higher, in the shade
      Of my old walnut-trees.

    So many lads and lasses small,
    To feed them all, to clothe them all,
      Must surely tax his wit;
    I see his thatch when I look out,
    His branching roses creep about,
      And vines half smother it.

    There white-haired urchins climb his eaves,
    And little watch-fires heap with leaves,
      And milky filberts hoard;
    And there his oldest daughter stands
    With downcast eyes and skilful hands
      Before her ironing-board.

    She comforts all her mother's days,
    And with her sweet obedient ways
      She makes her labor light;
    So sweet to hear, so fair to see!
    O, she is much too good for me,
      That lovely Lettice White!

    'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool!
    With that same lass I went to school—
      I then was great and wise;
    She read upon an easier book,
    And I—I never cared to look
      Into her shy blue eyes.

    And now I know they must be there
    Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair
      That will not raise their rim:
    If maids be shy, he cures who can;
    But if a man be shy—a man—
      Why then the worse for him!

    My mother cries, "For such a lad
    A wife is easy to be had
      And always to be found;
    A finer scholar scarce can be,
    And for a foot and leg," says she,
      "He beats the country round!

    "My handsome boy must stoop his head
    To clear her door whom he would wed."
      Weak praise, but fondly sung!
    "O mother! scholars sometimes fail—
    And what can foot and leg avail
      To him that wants a tongue?"

    When by her ironing-board I sit,
    Her little sisters round me flit,
      And bring me forth their store;
    Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,
    And small sweet apples bright of hue
      And crimson to the core.

    But she abideth silent, fair,
    All shaded by her flaxen hair
      The blushes come and go;
    I look, and I no more can speak
    Than the red sun that on her cheek
      Smiles as he lieth low.

    Sometimes the roses by the latch
    Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
      Come sailing down like birds;
    When from their drifts her board I clear,
    She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
      The shyly uttered words.

    Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White
    By daylight and by candlelight
      When we two were apart.
    Some better day come on apace,
    And let me tell her face to face,
      "Maiden, thou hast my heart."

    How gently rock yon poplars high
    Against the reach of primrose sky
      With heaven's pale candles stored!
    She sees them all, sweet Lettice White;
    I'll e'en go sit again to-night
      Beside her ironing-board!