“TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!”

WHERE my true love abideth

I make my way to-night;

Lo! waiting, she

Espieth me,

And calleth in delight:

“I see his steed anear

Come trotting with my dear,—

Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot,

Trot thou my lover here!”

Aloose I cast the bridle,

And ply the whip and spur;

And gayly I

Speed this reply,

While faring on to her:

“Oh, true love, fear thou not!

I seek our trysting spot;

And double feed be yours, my steed,

If you more swiftly trot.”

I vault from out the saddle,

And make my good steed fast;

Then to my breast

My love is pressed,—

At last, true heart, at last!

The garden drowsing lies,

The stars fold down their eyes,—

In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not,

Nor stamp in restless wise!

O passing sweet communion

Of young hearts, warm and true!

To thee belongs

The old, old songs

Love finds forever new.

We sing those songs, and then

Cometh the moment when

It's, “Good steed, trot from this dear spot,—

Trot, trot me home again!”