The Rosy Beauty. Poem by Samuel Bamford

A little rosy beauty
I chanced once to spy;
Within the lonely woodlands
Were only she and I.
Oh! tell me, precious jewel,
Why strayest thou alone?
She, smiling, said, 'I'm not afraid,
For I have injured none.

'I come each morn a-milking,
I can come on ev'ry eve;
But cushy now hath wander'd,
Till lost, I do believe.'
'I'll go with thee and find her,
Each dell and copse I know,
And where the grass is sweetest,
And where the waters flow.'

Where posies gay were springing,
I led the artless maid,
And where the birds were singing,
Forgetfully we stray'd;
Where blossoms were the whitest,
And where the sward was green,
And where the rill ran brightest,
We found a path unseen.

And there I took occasion
To speak of sundry things:
Of life-its short duration—
How riches make them wings;
That true love was a duty,
A wondrous pleasure too;
And I whisper'd to that beauty,
'Why may not I and you?

I know thee, my delighter,
And thou hast heard my name;
I'm not a maiden's slighter,
Thou shalt not blush for shame.'
I took her to my bosom,
And kiss'd her bonny mouth;
And, oh! but it was sweeter
Than honey from the south.

Awhile she stood confused,
The tear was in her eye;
The dove was all unusèd
Unto that fearful joy.
I sooth'd and I caress'd her,
Until she did incline;
And, if my love hath bless'd her,
The blessed one is mine!