New Zealand Verse/Miroa's Song
LXXXV.
Miroa’s Song.
Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:
By the tinkling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;
Poor hapless I—poor little I—so many mouths to fill,
And all for this strange feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
By the tinkling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;
Poor hapless I—poor little I—so many mouths to fill,
And all for this strange feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
O senseless heart—O simple! to yearn so and to pine
For one so far above me, confest o’er all to shine—
For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine!
O ’tis a foolish feeling—all this fond sweet pain!
For one so far above me, confest o’er all to shine—
For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine!
O ’tis a foolish feeling—all this fond sweet pain!
When I was quite a child—not so many moons ago—
A happy little maiden—O then it was not so;
Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro;
And I never had this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
A happy little maiden—O then it was not so;
Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro;
And I never had this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
I think it must be owing to the idle life I lead
In the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weed
Has sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeed
With a restless weary feeling—such a sad sweet pain!
In the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weed
Has sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeed
With a restless weary feeling—such a sad sweet pain!
So in this pleasant islet, O no longer will I stay—
And the shadowy summer-dwelling, I will leave this very day;
On Arapá I’ll launch my skiff and soon be borne away
From all that feeds this feeling, O this fond sweet pain!
And the shadowy summer-dwelling, I will leave this very day;
On Arapá I’ll launch my skiff and soon be borne away
From all that feeds this feeling, O this fond sweet pain!
I’ll go and see dear Rima—she’ll welcome me I know,
And a flaxen cloak, her gayest, o’er my weary shoulders throw,
With purfle red and points so free—O quite a lovely show—
To charm away this feeling—O this sad sweet pain!
And a flaxen cloak, her gayest, o’er my weary shoulders throw,
With purfle red and points so free—O quite a lovely show—
To charm away this feeling—O this sad sweet pain!
Two feathers I will borrow, and so gracefully I’ll wear,
Two feathers soft and snowy for my long black lustrous hair;
Of the Albatross’s down they’ll be—O how charming they’ll look there—
All to chase away this feeling—O this fond sweet pain!
Two feathers soft and snowy for my long black lustrous hair;
Of the Albatross’s down they’ll be—O how charming they’ll look there—
All to chase away this feeling—O this fond sweet pain!
Then the lads will flock around me with flattering talk all day—
And with anxious little pinches sly hints of love convey;
And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them . . . I daresay . . .
And quite forget this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
And with anxious little pinches sly hints of love convey;
And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them . . . I daresay . . .
And quite forget this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!