| |
| MAIDENS, kilt your skirts and go | |
| Down the stormy garden-ways. | |
| Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow, | |
| Gather roses, gather bays, | |
| Since our Celia comes to-day, | 5 |
| That has been so long away. | |
| |
| Crowd her chamber with your sweets— | |
| Not a flower but grows for her! | |
| Make her bed with linen sheets | |
| That have lain in lavender: | 10 |
| Light a fire before she come, | |
| Lest she find us chill at home. | |
| |
| Ah, what joy when Celia stands | |
| By the leaping blaze at last, | |
| Stooping low to warm her hands | 15 |
| All benumbèd with the blast, | |
| While we hide her cloak away, | |
| To assure us she shall stay! | |
| |
| Cyder bring and cowslip wine, | |
| Fruits and flavours from the East, | 20 |
| Pears and pippins too, and fine | |
| Saffron loaves to make a feast; | |
| China dishes, silver cups, | |
| For the board where Celia sups! | |
| |
| Then, when all the feasting ’s done, | 25 |
| She shall draw us round the blaze, | |
| Laugh, and tell us every one | |
| Of her far triumphant days— | |
| Celia, out of doors a star, | |
| By the hearth a holier Lar! | 30 |
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