Poems No enemies (62)

You have no enemies, you say?

Alas! my friend, the boast is poor;

He who has mingled in the fray

Of duty, that the brave endure,

Must have made foes! If you have none,

Small is the work that you have done.

You've hit no traitor on the hip,

You've dashed no cup from perjured lip,

You've never turned the wrong to right,

You've been a coward in the fight.

C. Mackay

Red, red rose (63)

0, my luve is like a red, red rose,

That`s newly sprung in June.

0, my love is like a melodie,

That`s sweetly play`d in tune.

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I,

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a` the seas gang dry.

Till a` the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi` the sun!

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands of life shall run.

And fare the weel, my only luve!

And fare the well awhile!

And I will come again, my love.

Tho it were ten thousand mile!

Robert Burns

Let me not to the marriage of true minds (64)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: Oh, no! it is an ever-fixéd mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come' Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

W. Shakespeare

Somebody’s Darling (65)

Into the ward of the clean white-washed halls, Where the dead slept and the dying lay; Wounded by bayonets, sabres and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing still on his sweet yet pale face, Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Somebody's darling, somebody's pride, Who'll tell his mother where her boy died? Matted and damp are his tresses of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of most delicate mould, Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful purple-veined brow, Brush off the wandering waves of gold; Cross his white hands on his broad bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold. Give him a kiss, but for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer for him, soft and low, One little curl from his golden mates take, Somebody's they were once, you know; Somebody's warm hand has oft rested there, Was it a Mother's so soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister, so fair, Ever been bathed in their waves of light? Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her breast; Yet there he lies with his blue eyes so dim, And purple, child-like lips half apart. Tenderly bury the fair, unknown dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab over his head, "Somebody's darling is slumbering here."

Marie Ravenal de la Coste