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My Lady.

My Lady waits at home for me,
And guards my castle by the sea,
While I. her knight, am far away,
Fighting the heathen in Cathay,

What shall I send to my lady,
To keep me in her memory.
Of all the spoils that I have won.
Of all the deeds that I have done?

I'll send her silks and satins rare,
All woven by a princess fair:
She worked them for her marriage day:
Her lover proved untrue, they say.

Of gems I'll send—red ruby rings,
Torn from the palaces of kings;
A queen for every ring has sighed,
For every jewel a man has died.

A thousand slaves shall freight my ship,
Till 'neath the waves the gunwales dip;
At the galley oars my slaves shall bend.
As home to her their way they wend.

My lady, she will none of this.
Soft silks and slaves she will not miss;
Bright gems to her are far less sweet
Than the tiniest flower beneath her feet.

Then I'll send nothing of my spoil,
O, I'll tell nothing of my toil;
This kerchief. stained with my warm blood,
Alone shall cross the swelling flood.

And she will wear it next her heart.
Which at the touch will stab and start;
Though I am here in far Cathay.
And she so many miles away.

C. H. Taylor.