C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
George Walter Thornbury (1828–1876)
The White Rose Over the Water
T
Their claret cups before them;
Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,
The tavern lamps shone o’er them,
As a brimming bowl, with crystal filled,
Came borne by the landlord’s daughter,
Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose
That grew best over the water.
With hearty clasp and greeting;
The brimming cups, outstretched by all,
Over the wide bowl meeting.
“A health,” they cried, “to the witching eyes
Of Kate, the landlord’s daughter!
But don’t forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
The last red drop outpouring;
Then with a cry that warmed the blood,
One heart-born chorus roaring—
“Let the glass go round to pretty Kate,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter;
But never forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water.”
And lusty rang the chorus:
“Never,” they cried, “while Scots are Scots
And the broad Frith’s before us.”
A ruby ring the glasses shine
As they toast the landlord’s daughter,
Because she wore the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
With all its stings and prickles;
The shamrock with its holy leaf
Is spared by Irish sickles:
But bumpers round,—for what are these
To Kate, the landlord’s daughter,
Who wears at her bosom the rose as white
That grows best over the water?”
No lip might touch them after:
The toast had sanctified the cups
That smashed against the rafter.
Their chairs thrown back, they up again
To toast the landlord’s daughter;
But never forgot the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.