  When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock, Where the sunset had kissed them to flame, On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock, With his sword in its scabbard, he came! In the glamour of amorous passion He would blaze like a seasoned cigar; And he fought in a similar fashion, Did Young Lochinvar! By the fences and fens unaffrighted, And unstopt by the stream in its spate, In a lather, at last, he alighted, And he knocked at the Netherbys’ gate. ’Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.) He perceived his particular “star” To a blackguard about to be wedded, Did Young Lochinvar! But he passed through the portal so proudly To the room where the gifts were displayed, That old Netherby called to him loudly (For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid). “Is it blood you are bent upon shedding? With a murder this marriage to mar? Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding, My Young Lochinvar?” He replied, “Tho’ ’twere useless to smother My love for the maid at your side; Tho’ my Helen be bound to another, I shall trust to the turn of the tied. As I drink to her squint and her freckles, I’ll remark how few ladies there are Who would shrink from a share of the shekels Of Young Lochinvar.” Then he pledged her in port, so politely (Tho’ her mother lamented his taste), And she smiled at him ever so slightly, As he settled his arm round her waist. When he drew her direct to the dancers, The Bohemian band struck a bar, And she found herself leading the Lancers With Young Lochinvar! Oh, the beauty and grace are so vivid Of this perfectly parallel pair, That the parents grow purple and livid, And the bridegroom is tearing his hair; While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen, Saying: “Goodness, what gabies we are, Not to marry our exquisite cousin To Young Lochinvar!” Then the girl by her partner is beckoned To the door, where a charger they find; To the saddle he springs in a second, And he lifts her up lightly behind; “She is mine!” he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar, “Till the cattle to roost are returning!” Says Young Lochinvar. O the tumult! The tumbling of tables! O the stress of the scene that succeeds! O the stir on the stairs,—in the stables! O the stamping and saddling of steeds! But the bride has eluded them surely; In the room of some kind Registrar, She is now being wedded securely To Young Lochinvar! “‘She is mine!’ he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar” |
|
