WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

But had I wist, before I kisst,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinned it wi’ a siller pin.

BRIDE’S BURIAL.

In love as we have livde,
In love let us depart;
And I, in token of my love,
Do kiss thee with my heart.

CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
“God bless you both, my children deare;”
With that the teares did fall.

LUCY AND COLIN.

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE.

Sir Kay beheld that lady’s face,
And looked upon her sweere:[16]
“Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes,
“Of his kisse he stands in feare.”
Sir Kay beheld that ladye againe,
And looked upon her snout:
“Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes,
“Of his kisse he stands in doubt.”

GUY AND AMARANT.

The good old man, even overjoyed with this,
Fell on the ground, and wold have kissed Guy’s feete:
“Father,” quoth he, “refraine soe base a kisse,
For age to honor youth I hold unmeete.”

THE HUMORS OF VERSE.

ON MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE.

Nay, fond one, shun that mistletoe,
Nor lure me ’neath its fatal bough:
Some other night ’twere joy to go,
But ah! I must not, dare not, now!
’Tis sad, I own, to see thy face
Thus tempt me with its giggling glee,
And feel I cannot now embrace
The opportunity—and thee.
’Tis sad to think that jealousy’s
Sharp scissors may our true love sever,
And that my coldness now may freeze
Thy warm affection, love, forever.
But ah! to disappoint our bliss,
A fatal hindrance now is stuck:
’Tis not that I am loath to kiss,
But, dearest,—I have dined on duck.

MOCK HEROICS.

Out from the dark, wild forest
Rode the terrible Heinz Von Stein,
And paused at the front of a tavern,
And gazed at the swinging sign.
Then he sat himself down in a corner,
And growled for a bottle of wine;
Up came—with a flask and a corkscrew—
A maiden of beauty divine.
Then he sighed, with a deep love sighing,
And said, “O damsel mine,
Suppose you just give a few kisses
To the valorous Ritter Von Stein?”
But she answered, “The kissing business
Is not at all in my line;
And surely I shall not begin it
On a countenance ugly as thine.”
Then the knight was exceedingly angry,
And he cursed both coarse and fine;
And he asked her what was the swindle
For her sour and nasty wine.
And fiercely he rode to his castle,
And sat himself down to dine:
And this is the fearful legend
Of the terrible Heinz Von Stein.

The closing stanza of the old English ballad called “The Rural Dance about the May-pole” is as follows:

“Let’s kiss,” says Jane; “Content,” says Nan,
And so says every she;
“How many?” says Batt; “Why, three,” says Matt,
“For that’s a maiden’s fee.”
But they, instead of three,
Did give them half a score,
And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em,
Gave ’em as many more.

There is a song of the reign of Queen Anne beginning:

“Go from my window, go,
Or something at you I may throw:”

to which a lover replies,—

“Throw me or blow me a kiss,
And nothing can then come amiss.”

From the old Scotch ballad, “The Souter and his Sow,” we take the following stanza:

The souter gae his sow a kiss.
“Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “it’s for my birse;”
“And wha gae ye sae sweet a mou’?”
Quo’ the souter to the sow.
“Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “and wha gae ye
A tongue sae sleekit and sae slee?”

Some of our readers will remember the humorous old Scotch song in which these verses occur:

“Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye go a-shearing?”
“Speak a little louder, sir, I’m unco dull o’ hearing.”
“Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye let me kiss ye?”
“I hear a little better, sir, may a’ the warld bless ye.”

In Cheshire and Staffordshire the lines run thus:

“Old woman, old woman, may I come and kiss you?”
“Yes, and thank you kindly, sir, and may Heaven bless you.”

Many will recognize these old verses:

Some say that kissing’s a sin,
But I think it’s nane ava;
For kissing has wonn’d in this warld
Since ever there was twa.
Oh, if it wasna lawfu’,
Lawyers wadna allow it;
If it wasna holy,
Ministers wadna do it.
If it wasna modest,
Maidens wadna tak it;
If it wasna plenty,
Puir folks wadna get it.

KING KEDER.

The only account of this apocryphal monarch is a poetic myth relating to an amorous design, from the frustration of which was named the town of Kidderminster:

King Keder saw a pretty girl,
King Keder would have kissed her,
The damsel nimbly slipped aside,
and so
King Keder missed her,
Keder missed her.

Shakspeare, in his “Venus and Adonis,” gives this picture of tantalizing caprice:

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

As a specimen of what the human mind can effect in the way of amatory poetry, we take the following from a journal of the period:

When Carlo sits in Sally’s chair,
Oh, don’t I wish that I were there!
When her fairy fingers pat his head,
Oh, don’t I wish ’twas me instead!
When Sally’s arms his neck imprison,
Oh, don’t I wish my neck was his’n!
When Sally kisses Carlo’s nose,
Oh, don’t I wish that I were those!

THE PUBLICAN’S DAUGHTER.

In George Colman’s musical farce, “The Review, or the Wags of Windsor,” Looney Mactwolter falls in love with Judy O’Flannikin:

Judy’s a darling; my kisses she suffers:
She’s an heiress, that’s clear,
For her father sells beer;
He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers.

In Hood’s “Retrospective Review,” “Oh, when I was a tiny boy,” etc., occurs this stanza:

Oh for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch’s smart
Should mark those hours again;
I’d “kiss the rod,” and be resigned
Beneath the strokes, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

In Robert Southey’s “Love Elegies,” the poet relates how he obtained Delia’s pocket-handkerchief, and shows that “the eighth commandment was not made for love,” when he proceeds as follows:

Here, when she took the macaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet!
Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee,—
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.
And when she took that pinch of Maccabaw
That made my love so delicately sneeze,
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw;
And thou art doubly dear for things like these.
No washerwoman’s filthy hand shall e’er,
Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane;
For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o’er and o’er again.

Scotch song abounds with pleasant allusions to the custom of kissing, like this, for example, from a well-known West Highland ditty:

Dumbarton’s drums beat bonnie, O,
When they mind me o’ my dear Johnny, O;
How happy am I,
When my soldier is by,
When he kisses and blesses his Annie, O!
’Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O,[17]
For his graceful looks do invite me, O;
Whilst guarded in his arms,
I’ll fear no war’s alarms,
Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me, O.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

When lads and lasses merry be,
With possets and with junkets fine,
Unseen of all the company
I eat their cakes and sip their wine,
And, to make sport,
I whoop and snort,
And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss:
They shriek, “Who’s this?”
I answer nought but ho, ho, ho![18]

NOSES.

How very odd that poets should suppose
There is no poetry about a nose,
When plain as is man’s nose upon his face,
A nose-less face would lack poetic grace!
Noses have sympathy, a lover knows:
Noses are always touched, when lips are kissing;
And who would care to kiss, if nose were missing?

“BEWARE OF PAINT.”

A lover sat down with his love by his side,
With a countenance joyous, and beaming with pride.
As he gazed on the blending of beauty and art,
A thrill of delight filled his innermost heart;
And, revelling there in his visions of bliss,
He thought to obtain from the fair one a kiss.
But ere he had gained the much-coveted prize,
The scales of love’s blindness dropped off of his eyes;
For he marked the fixed hue of the maidenly blush,
And detected the carmine that passed for a flush
Of the life-giving tide, with its ebb and its flow,
Like a lake in the sunset with reddening glow.
“Faugh!” thought he,—“is’t only a semblance, fair saint,
Of beauty and youth,—only powder and paint?
Have I been deceived by the likeness of truth,
By counterfeit bloom and by parodied youth?
Ah, that beautiful brow I was wont to declare
Did vie with the lily, so white and so fair,
I find to my sorrow, and e’en to love’s blight,
Owes its blanch to enamel or pure lily-white!
No, no, I decline! I relinquish the bliss
I had hoped to derive from a rapturous kiss,
Lest the mark of the brush I might haply erase,
And leave a significant print on her face;
Nor more will I fondly encircle her neck,
Lest the counterfeit fairness my sleeve may bedeck,
And I care not to bear on demonstrative arms
Such manifest mark of decadence of charms.”
W. M. Pegram.

THE SHADOWS.

In the twilight gloom
The family sat in the sitting-room,
Chatting the hour away
Before tea,
While Kate and I were watching the gray
Of evening descend o’er the sea,
As in a bow-window stood we.
We talked of times
That touched our hearts as the evening’s chimes;
Holding her hand in mine,—
Happy me!
And as we looked at the stars that shine,
I kissed her, and she kissed me,
As in a bow-window stood we.
Then oped the door,
And the light of a lamp fell on the floor;
While a maid did call
Them to tea.
And, as they turned, this sight saw all,—
Shadows were kissing on the wall,
As in a bow-window kissed we.

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A district school, not far away,
’Mid Berkshire hills and winter’s day,
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys,
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent.
The while the master’s downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book,
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack,
As ’twere a battery of bliss
Let off in one tremendous kiss!
“What’s that?” the startled master cries.
“That, thir,” a little imp replies,
“Wath William Willuth, if you pleathe,—
I thaw him kith Thuthannah Peathe!”
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, “Hither, Will!”
Like wretch o’ertaken in his track,
With stolen chattels on his back,
Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And to the awful presence came,—
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-natured fun.
With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered, “I’m amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should
Be guilty of an act so rude!
Before the whole set school, to boot.
What evil genius put you to’t?”
“’Twas she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad;
“I didn’t mean to be so bad;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered I was ’fraid of girls,
And dursn’t kiss a baby’s doll,
I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot.
I know—boo-hoo—I ought to not,
But somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo—
I thought she kind o’ wished me to!”

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,
I guess I’ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;
I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here.
And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
Oh, there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,
But they have heard her father’s step, and in he leaps again.

(The lover is seized with the cramp and is drowned,
and the maiden never awakens from her “swound.”)

Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
Holmes.

ANCIENT SPANISH LYRIC.

Since for kissing thee, Minquillo,
My mother scolds me all the day,
Let me have it quickly, darling,
Give me back my kiss, I pray.
If we have done aught amiss,
Let’s undo it while we may;
Quickly give me back my kiss,
That she may have naught to say.
Do,—she makes so great a bother,
Chides so sharply, looks so grave,—
Do, my love, to please my mother,
Give me back the kiss I gave.
Out upon you, false Minquillo!
One you give, but two you take;
Give me back the one, my darling,
Give it for my mother’s sake.

THE BROKEN PITCHER.

[From the Spanish.]

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight for the town of Oviedo,
Alfonzo Guzman was the knight, the Count of Desparedo.
“O maiden, Moorish maiden, why sitt’st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou upon me with eyes so large and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?”
“I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon well.
“My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is:
A shepherd came behind me and tried to steal a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.
“My uncle the Alcayde, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.
I cannot bring him water, the pitcher is in pieces,
And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wollops all his nieces.”
“O maiden, Moorish maiden, wilt thou be ruled by me?
So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three,
And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy uncle the Alcayde.”
He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree—
He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three:
“To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”
He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in.
Up rose the Moorish maiden,—behind the knight she steals,
And caught Alfonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels,
She tipped him in, and held him down, beneath the bubbling water,
“Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!”
A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo,
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.
I pray you all, in charity, that you will never tell
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

THE “BASIA” OF JOHANNES SECUNDUS.

The true name of the Dutch poet Johannes Secundus was Johannes Everard. He was born at the Hague in 1511, and died at Utrecht in 1536. His “Opera Poetica” consist of elegies, odes, epigrams, and other poems, written in purely classical Latin. Of these productions, the “Basia,” or “Kisses” (Utrecht, 1539), have been most admired, and have been ranked with the lyrics of Catullus. They have been repeatedly translated into the principal European languages, the English versions being by Nott and Stanley. We offer selections from the latter, for such of our readers as are unfamiliar with the rapturous Dutchman’s florid effusions.

The introductory epigram is as follows:

Lycinna scorns my Kisses; they are chaste,
Not stout enough for her experienced taste;
And Ælia calls me “bard with languid strings,”
She that to Love in streets her offerings brings.
Perhaps my utmost strength they seek to know,
To prove my vigor!—Go! vile wantons, go!
My strength, my vigor, long despair to find;
For you these kisses never were designed;
Never for you were these soft measures wrought:
Read me, ye tender brides of boys untaught;
Read me, of brides untaught ye tender boys,
Yet new to Venus’ sweetly varying joys!

KISS I.

THE ORIGIN OF KISSES.

When young Ascanius, by the Queen of Love,
Was wafted to Cythera’s lofty grove,
The slumbering boy upon a couch she laid,
A fragrant couch, of new-blown violets made,
The blissful bower with shadowing roses crowned,
And balmy-breathing airs diffused around.
Soon, as she watched, through all her glowing soul
Impassioned thoughts of lost Adonis stole.
How oft, as memory hallowed all his charms,
She longed to clasp the sleeper in her arms!
How oft she said, admiring every grace,
“Such was Adonis! such his lovely face!”
But, fearing lest this fond excess of joy
Might break the slumber of the beauteous boy,
On every rose-bud that around him blowed,
A thousand nectared kisses she bestowed;
And straight each opening bud, which late was white,
Blushed a warm crimson to the astonished sight.
Still in Dione’s breast soft wishes rise,
Soft wishes, vented with soft-whispered sighs.
Thus, by her lips unnumbered roses pressed,
Kisses, unfolding in sweet bloom, confessed;
And, flushed with rapture at each new-born kiss,
She felt her swelling soul o’erwhelmed in bliss.
Now round this orb, soft-floating on the air,
The beauteous goddess speeds her radiant car;
As in gay pomp the harnessed cygnets fly,
Their snow-white pinions glitter through the sky:
And like Triptolemus, whose bounteous hand
Strewed golden plenty o’er the fertile land,
Fair Cytherea, as she flew along,
O’er the vast lap of nature kisses flung;
Pleased from on high she viewed the enchanted ground,
And from her lips thrice fell a magic sound:
He gave to mortals corn on every plain,
But she those sweets which mitigate my pain.
Hail, then, ye kisses! that can best assuage
The pangs of love, and soften all its rage!
Ye balmy kisses! that from roses sprung;
Roses! on which the lips of Venus hung:
Your bard am I; while yet the Aonian shades
Boast their proud verdures and their flowery glades,
While yet a laurel guards the sacred spring,
My fond, impassioned muse of you shall sing;
And Love, enraptured with the Latin name,
With that dear race from which your lineage came,
In Latin strains shall celebrate your praise,
And tell your high descent to future days.

KISS II.

As round some neighboring elm the vine
Its amorous tendrils loves to twine;
As round the oak, in many a maze,
The ivy flings its gadding sprays;
Couldst thou, Neæra, thus enlace
My neck with clinging close embrace;
If thine with such tenacious hold
My arms, Neæra, could enfold,
And nought could those sweet bonds dissever,
But we cling on and kiss forever;
Then, Ceres, Bacchus, sleep, adieu!
Good friends, I’d ask no more of you.
Oh, not for these, my love, oh, no,
Would I thy vermil lips forego;
But, lost in kisses never ending,
Our lives in mutual bliss expending,
One bark should waft our spirits o’er,
United, to the Stygian shore:
Then, passing through a transient night,
We’d enter soon those fields of light,
Where, breathing richest odors round,
A spring eternal paints the ground;
Where heroes, once in valor proved,
And beauteous heroines, once beloved,
Again with mutual passion burn,
Feel all their wonted flames return,
And now in sportive measures tread
The flowery carpet of the mead,
Now sing the jocund, tuneful tale,
Alternate in the myrtle vale,
Where ceaseless zephyrs fan the glade,
Soft-murmuring through the laurel shade;
Beneath whose waving foliage grow
The violet sweet of purple glow,
The daffodil that breathes perfume,
And roses of immortal bloom:
Where Earth her gifts spontaneous yields,
Nor ploughshare cuts the unfurrowed fields.
Soon as we entered these abodes
Of happy souls, of demi-gods,
The blest would all respectful rise,
And view us with admiring eyes;
Would seat us ’mid the immortal throng,
Where I, renowned for tender song,
A poet’s and a lover’s praise,
At once should claim and gain the bays;
While thou, enthroned above the rest,
Shouldst shine in Beauty’s train confest:
Nor should the mistresses of Jove
Such partial honors disapprove;
E’en Helen, though of race divine,
Would to thy charms her rank resign.