O praise me not with your lips, dear one! Though your tender words I prize. But dearer by far is the soulful gaze Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one! Though I cause your bosom sighs. You can make repentance deeper far By your sad, reproving eyes, Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; Above, in the beaming skies, The constant stars say never a word, But only smile with their eyes— Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; On the winged wind speech flies. But I read the truth of your noble heart In your soulful, speaking eyes— In your deep and beautiful eyes.
If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the harbour could not hold So many sails as there would be If all my ships came in from sea.
If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah, well! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state— So rich the treasures that would be In half my ships now out at sea.
If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown For if the others all went down, Still rich and proud and glad I’d be If that one ship came back to me.
If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With glory, honours, riches, gold, The poorest soul on earth I’d be If that one ship came not to me.
O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free— Blow all my ships safe home to me! But if thou sendest some a-wrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any—all that skim the sea, But bring my love-ship home to me.
The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman’s love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every grass blade on the plain— A woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away— A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part. We must not blame, but pity her.