Waiting for the Grapes

William Maginn (1794–1842)

THAT I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand times have said,

And a thousand times more I have sworn it,

But ’t is easy to be seen in the coldness of your mien

That you doubt my affection—or scorn it.

Ah me!

Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of these pretences

For rejecting your lover’s petitions;

Had I windows in my bosom, O, how gladly I’ d expose ’em,

To undo your fantastic suspicions!

Ah me!

You repeat I ’ve known you long, and you hint I do you wrong,

In beginning so late to pursue ye;

But ’t is folly to look glum because people did not come

Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.

Ah me!

In a grapery one walks without looking at the stalks,

While the bunches are green that they ’re bearing:

All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the eaves

Scarce attract e’en a moment of staring.

Ah me!

But when time has swelled the grapes to a richer style of shapes,

And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes,

Then to cheer us and to gladden, to chant us and to madden,

Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.

Ah me!

O, ’t is then that mortals pant while they gaze on Bacchus’ plant.—

O, ’t is then,—will my simile serve ye?

Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like a vine?

Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy.

Ah me!