The Parson's Daughter

There at the window early
comes the rooster's crow,
and the maiden I love dearly
ambles along also.

She's come to the well for water,
a clay jug in each hand.
She is the parson's daughter,
and wears no golden band.

If I were the fair Queen's soldier,
I'd slay me many a foe,
Nor wish to be one day older,
I'd fight for her honor so.

Yet amid the strife and slaughter
my heart would keep a place
for the eyes of the parson's daughter,
that gleam with queenly grace.

If I were a temple-builder,
with naught but wood and stone,
I'd treat them as gold and silver,
and build as it were God's throne.

Near the stars I'd swing my hammer,
near Heaven my church would stand;
yet still would my fool's heart clamor
for my beloved's hand.

But I am a harness-maker,
an apprentice one at that,
far poorer than butcher or baker,
to whom I tip my hat;

and I've not the courage to query
around for hope nor hint
that the parson's daughter might tarry
to meet this workman's squint.

And so at the window tomorrow
I'll lean my mug at dawn,
and drink the day's draught of sorrow
when she steps over the lawn.



8.20.13