To Miss Jettie Morrill, Amesbury. 
"My Lady" (1879)
Poetry by John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892
[from "The Henchman", 1877] 
Music by George L. Osgood.

Boston: Oliver Ditson & Co., 451 Washington St.
New York: C. H. Ditson & Co.
Chicago: Lyon & Healy
Philadelphia: J. K. Ditson & Co.
Savanah: Ludden & Bates
San Francisco: Sherman Hyde & Co.
New Orleans: L. Grunewald
Plate No. 47235
[Source: 066/070@Levy]

[The original complete poem from 1877.]
THE HENCHMAN.

MY lady walks her morning round,
My lady's page her fleet greyhound,
My lady's hair the fond winds stir,
And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,
And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;
But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird,
Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers;
The least of all her worshippers,
The dust beneath her dainty heel,
She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm!--she cannot know
Where'er she goes with her I go;
Oh, cold and fair!--she cannot guess
I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,
I rob their ears of her sweet talk;
Her suitors come from east and west,
I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words,
I greet her with the song of birds;
I reach her with her green-armed bowers,
I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail,
The wind and I uplift her veil;
As if the calm, cold moon she were,
And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share
The license of the sun and air,
And in a common homage hide
My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near,
I breathe her charmed atmosphere,
Wherein to her my service brings
The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name,
My dumb devotion shall not shame;
The love that no return doth crave
To knightly levels lifts the slave,

No lance have I, in joust or fight,
To splinter in my lady's sight
But, at her feet, how blest were I
For any need of hers to die!


[The song lyrics used:]

My lady walks her morning round, 
My la dy’s page her fleet greyhound; 
My lady’s hair the soft winds stir, 
And all the birds make songs for her. 

Ah, proud and calm she cannot know, 
Where e’er she goes with her I go, 
Ah, proud and calm, she cannot know, 
Where e’er she goes with her I go. 

Unseen, unfelt, she cannot guess 
I kneel to share her hounds’ caress. 
Unknown to her with loving words, 
I greet her in the song of birds; 

I fold her in her green armed bowers, 
I kiss her with the lips of flowers. 
The hound and I are on her trail, 
The breeze and I uplift her veil, 

She cannot her sweet self deny 
To one so meekly bold as I. 

My lady walks her morning round, 
My lady’s page, her fleet greyhound; 
My lady’s hair the soft winds stir, 
And all the birds make songs for her.