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The lyke wake dirge version I sent you was a 17th c version...probably goes back a goodly bit though.

Morose cause matches my mood.

There are cheerier pieces!

Svmer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteþ after lomb,
Lhouþ after calue cu.
Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ,
Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu, wel singes þu, cuccu;
Ne swik þu naver nu,
Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!

Well, I think the earlier mood affected me, so here's something for the brother's presence tonight, and marginally for Valentine's Day. I'll come back in a moment with a Spring Poem to cheer you.

I was trying to force another verse or two, and it just wasn't coming.

Raven Tress

Aye, is not for me, that wench of sky-filled eyes, and sunny hair,
But lasses of a somber set, whose tresses are the night,
Live in my dreams, and daily walk, and take my heart to care,
While strawhaired girls pick flowers to hold tight.

The lass of dreams wears common clothes, and smiles a common smile,
You know what you are dealing with, and that she holds a power,
She sings a song of everyday, in pleasant trilling style,
And stays in happy, tuneful joy until the final hour.

While princesses in fairy gowns patrol the grassy heights,
And follow butterflies amidst the shaded bowers,
My raven tress is business, and watching grimmer sights,
Aye, and this is what I seek when comes the darkling hours.

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . February 14, 2006

Spring

The birds seem happy when they sing,
In truth, they call a warning.
To other males who might intrude,
“Go somewhere else this morning!”

With strident voice and puffed out chest,
They pose as on display.
The ladies flutter here and there,
Today’s a shopping day!

They’re looking ‘round for husbands,
And other things as well,
Material to build a place,
For gifts wrapped in a shell.

Happy Father’s Day, my dear,
Go find a bit of lunch.
I think we’ll have some company,
Expect to feed a bunch!

It all happens so quickly!
Life Springs forth in a pace,
That seems to make a joke of this,
Spring-fevered Human race!

NicknamedBob . . . March 30, 2004
© 2004