MY little kid! if I forbid
Your visit to my tender trees,
Take it not ill, nor vainly fill
With hoarse lament the mountain breeze.
Your father there with hoary hair
And there your gentler mother stands;
I sadly fear their coming near
My quiet nook on lower lands.
Let poet rest his throbbing breast
In the lone woodland’s cool retreat;
Let higher state the goat await
Who scorns alike the wind and heat,
For you alone, my little one,
I spread behind the stable door
The softest straw you ever saw.
Against the lintel more and more
You may bring out the horns that sprout
So ruddily, and polish each.
A shining brook runs near.. you look
Affrighted.. what a thoughtless speech!
So! here I find on kiddish mind
Traditionary lore instil’d.
Tho’ fairly bookt, Nymph might have lookt
For poet’s promise unfulfild.
But never mind; no hand shall bind
For a Bandusia such a kid.
Bound if you are, one fond and fair
Shall bind you in fresh flowers half-hid.
My groves delight by day and night
To hear her name: this makes them still.
Should she have prest to yours her breast
A little hard, dont take it ill.
Her cheek tho’ warm will do no harm
To the cool nostril she may kiss.
We all must bear things as they are.
Now one word more.. and it is this.
As you grow old grow not too bold,
Learn modesty, nor ramp nor roam.
Lest blushes rise to pain her eyes
Your lady cousins must not come.
Meanwhile, tho’ play you fairly may,
Hit not the inviting knee too hard;
For haply he afar may be
Who knows the cure, her faithful bard.