The Trifler

 Death's the lover that I'd be taking;
Wild and fickle and fierce is he.

Small's his care if my heart be breaking-
Gay young Death would have none of me.


Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!
No one other my mouth had kissed.

I had dressed me in silk to meet him-
False young Death would not hold the tryst.


Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,
Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;
I must wait till he whistles for me-
Proud young Death would not turn his head.


I must wait till my breast is wilted.

I must wait till my back is bowed,
I must rock in the corner, jilted-
Death went galloping down the road.


Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.

Fine he was in the game he played-
Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,
And rode away with a prettier maid.

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