Blue Moon

Oh I was young an’ feared o’ pain When I went hot-lovering down the lane. I sipped sweet honey wi’ my red lips, An’ I touched fire wi’ my finger-tips, But I drew them back again-- For the withered, gray woman so old and wise, Wi’ the queer, hushed voice an’ the listening eyes, An’ the stone-deaf ears, who lives i’ the lane-- She stepped so soft an’ she says “Rose-Jane! You’re eating plum porridge (ye poor wee loon!) Eating it hot in a rare blue moon. You’ve a dimpled face like a rosy June, But your mouth’ll be burnt Before you’ve learnt The way of a man in the moon. And then they’ll call you ‘Old Rose-Jane Who went hot-lovering down the lane.’ Beware of the rare blue moon, Rose-Jane!”

Saints bless that woman wi’ listening eyes! I’ve planted the sweet-briar where she lies. She stopped my ears an’ she made me wise. I’m pure as the virgin saints are pure-- Now never a man my pale lips lure. But once in a blue moon, I’m not sure That the withered gray woman, wi’ listening eyes, Didn’t cheat me out of a rare fine prize.

Something calls to me i’ the moon, “Rose-Jane! Rose-Jane! Come! Come soon!”