Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/94

 "I'm not, sir, in the market yet,"
 * Alack and well-a-day.

"Your love must cool upon a shelf; Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf, I'm yet too young to sell myself,"
 * Alack and well-a-day.

The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
 * Alack and well-a-day.

And looked he at the maid once more,
 * Alack and well-a-day.

Then loud he cried, "Fair maiden, if Too young to sell, now as I live, You're not too young yourself to give,"
 * Alack and well-a-day.

The little maid cast down her eyes,
 * Alack and well-a-day.

And many a flush began to rise,
 * Alack and well-a-day.

Why, since you are so bold," she said, "I doubt not you are highly bred, So take me!" and the twain were wed,
 * Alack and well-a-day.

MERRY AUTUMN

It's all a farce,- these tales they tell
 * About the breezes sighing,

And moans astir o'er field and dell,
 * Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em;
 * There's nothing known to beast or bird
 * To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway
 * With countenance distressing,

You'll note the more of black and gray
 * Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around;
 * The sky is blue and mellow;

And e'en the grasses turn the ground
 * From modest green to yellow.

The seed burrs all with laughter crack
 * On featherweed and jimson;

And leaves that should be dressed in black
 * Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by;
 * A singing bird comes after;