Edith Nesbit

Saturday Song

   THEY talk about gardens of roses,
      And moonlight over the sea,
   And mountains and snow
   And sunsetty glow,
      But I know what is best for me.
   The prettiest sight I know,
      Worth all your roses and snow,
   Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,
      When the barrows are set in a row.

   I’ve heard of bazaars in India
      All glitter and spices and smells,
   But they don’t compare
   With the naphtha flare
      And the herrings the coster sells;
   And the oranges piled like gold,
   The cucumbers lean and cold,
   And the red and white block-trimmings
      And the strawberries fresh and ripe,
   And the peas and beans,
   And the sprouts and greens,
      And the ’taters and trotters and tripe.

   And the shops where they sell the chairs,
      The mangles and tables and bedding,
   And the lovers go by in pairs,
      And look—and think of the wedding.
   And your girl has her arm in yours,
      And you whisper and make her blush.
   Oh! the snap in her eyes—and her smiles and her sighs
      As she fancies the purple plush!

   And you haven’t a penny to spend,
      But you dream that you’ve pounds and pounds;
   And arm in arm with your only friend
      You make your Saturday rounds:
   And you see the cradle bright
      With ribbon—lace—pink and white;
   And she stops her laugh
   And you drop your chaff
      In the light of the Saturday night.
   And the world is new
   For her and you—
      A little bit of all-right.

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