You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year, ‘ Twill be little lord or lady at my knee.
Oh, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil, That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost? You're as white as I turned once down by the mill, When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:
Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl ( It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me ), Philip with the merry life in lip and curl, Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!
I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint; I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad, Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.
They said I looked so pale — some say so fair — My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life: I know I missed a ringlet from my hair Next morning; and now I am his wife.
Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring, I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe: All day long I sit in the sun and sing, Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.
And I'm the rose of roses says my lord; And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky, While I hold him fast with the golden cord Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.
His mother said‘ fie,’ and his sisters cried‘ shame,’ His highborn ladies cried‘ shame’ from their place: They said‘ fie’ when they only heard my name, But fell silent when they saw my face.
Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you think I was so fair when we played boy and girl, Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent a whirl?
If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now, Sitting where a score of servants stand, With a coronet on high days for my brow And almost a sceptre for my hand.
You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown, A stranger on land and at home on the sea, Coasting as best you may from town to town: Coasting along do you often think of me?
I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower, With hands grown white through having nought to do: Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.
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