Page:The book of American negro poetry.djvu/77

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O, rich young lord, thou ridest by With looks of high disdain; It chafes me not thy title high, Thy blood of oldest strain. The lady riding at thy side Is but in name thy promised bride,
 * Ride on, young lord, ride on!

Her father wills and she obeys, The custom of her class; 'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways— For Land he sells his lass. Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine, Her soul, proud fool, her soul is mine,
 * Ride on, young lord, ride on!

No title high my father bore; The tenant of thy farm, He left me what I value more: Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm And love for bird and beast and bee And song of lark and hymn of sea,
 * Ride on, young lord, ride on!

The boundless sky to me belongs, The paltry acres thine;