Poetry Archives

There was one a-riding grand
  On a tall brown mare,
And a fine gold band
  He brought me there.

A little, gold band
  He held to me
That would shine on a hand
  For the world to see.

There was one a-walking swift
  To a little, new song,
And a rose was the gift
  He carried along,

First of all the posies,
  Dewy and red.
They that have roses
  Never need bread.

There was one with a swagger
  And a soft, slow tongue,
And a bright, cold dagger
  Where his left hand swung—

Craven and gilt,
  Old and bad—
And his stroking of the hilt
  Set a girl mad.

There was one a-riding grand
  As he rode from me.
And he raised his golden band
  And he threw it in the sea.

There was one a-walking slow
  To a sad, Iong sigh.
And his rose drooped low,
  And he flung it down to die.

There was one with a swagger
  And a little, sharp pride,
And a bright, cold dagger
  Ever at his side.

At his side it stayed
  When he ran to part.
What is this blade
  Struck through my heart?