ROBERT BURNS.

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,I , THE NYMPH'S REPLY.
MY LAD.

IF that the world and love were young,
O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;

These pretty pleasures might me move Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,

To live with thee and be thy love. O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, But warily tent, when ye come to court me,

When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; And Philomel becometh dumb, Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see, And all complain of cares to come. And come as ye were na' comin' to me. And come, &c.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields O whistle, &c.

To wayward winter reckoning yields ;

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Is fancy's'spring, but sorrow's fall.
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, * Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Yet look, &c.

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, O whistle, &c.

In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;

Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be,

All these in me no means can move For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.

To come to thee, and be thy love. For fear, &c.

But could youth last, and love still breed, O whistle, &c.

Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
COME, live with me, and be my love, ,
And we will all the pleasures prove

GO, HAPPY ROSE.
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.

Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove

With other flowers, bind my love ! There we will sit upon the rocks,

Tell her, too, she must not be Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

Longer flowing, longer free, By shallow rivers, to whose falls

That so oft hath fettered me. Melodious birds sing madrigals.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands There will I make thee beds of roses

Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; With a thousand fragrant posies;

Tell her, if she struggle still, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,

I have myrtle rods at will, Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

For to tame, though not to kill. A gown made of the finest wool,

Take then my blessing thus, and go, Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;

And tell her this, — but do not so ! Fair-lined slippers for the cold,

Lest a handsome anger fly, With buckles of the purest gold ;

Like a lightning from her eye,
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,

And burn thee up, as well as I.
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

1. For thy delight each May morning,

EVERY wedding, says the proverb,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Makes another, soon or late;
Never yet was any marriage

ROBERT HERRICK.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWĖ.

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

Could you sleep in your bed

Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,

Crying “Och hone! widow machree/"

THOMAS HOOD

WIDOW MACHREE.

Then take my advice, darling widow machree, —

Och hone! widow machree, 1.

And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me, Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,

Och hone! widow machree!
Och hone! widow machree;

You'd have me to desire Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black Then to stir up the fire ; gown, —

And sure hope is no liar
Och hone! widow machree.

In whispering to me,
How altered your air,

That the ghosts would depart
With that close cap you wear, —

When you'd me near your heart, —
"T is destroying your hair,

Och horre! widow machree !
Which should be flowing free :

SAMUEL LOVER.
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl, -
Och hone! widow machree !

MAUD MULLER.
II.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Widow machree, now the summer is come, – Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Och hone! widow machree,
When everything smiles, should a beauty look Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
glum?

| Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Och hone! widow machree!
See the birds go in pairs,

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
And the rabbits and hares;

The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
Why, even the bears

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
Now in couples agree;

White from its hill-slope looking down,
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish, –

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
Och hone! widow machree.

And a nameless longing filled her breast, –

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, Widow machree, and when winter comes in, —

For something better than she had known.
Och hone! widow machree, —
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Och hone! widow machree.

Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,

He drew his bridle in the shade
And the kettle sings songs

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
Full of family glee ;
While alone with your cup

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Like a hermit you sup,

Through the meadow, across the road.
Och hone! widow machree.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
IV.

And filled for him her small tin cup, And how do you know, with the comforts I've

| And blushed as she gave it, looking down towld, —

On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
Och hone! widow machree, -
But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the “ Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
cowld,

From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Sure your peace would be fled ;

1 of the singing birds and the humming bees;

III.

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether , And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. Looked out in their innocent surprise.

“And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And she heard the little spring brook fall And all should bless me who left our door.” Over the roadside, through the wall,

CHARLES G. HALPINE

QUAKERDOM.

When the noonday woods are ringing,

All the birds of summer singing,
THE FORMAL CALL.

Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a

serpent nigh: THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet

So upon the door a rattle Flashed the soul of frolic riot,

Stopped our animated tattle, And a most malicious laughter lighted up her. And the stately mother found us prim enough te downcast eyes ;

suit her eye. All in vain I tried each topic,

Ranged from polar climes to tropic, Every commonplace I started met with yes-orno replies.

THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember, For her mother - stiff and stately,

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, As if starched and ironed lately

Those evenings in the bleak December, Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in cury

Curtained warm from the snowy weather, ing palms;

When you and I played chess together, There she sat on guard before us,

Checkmated by each other's eyes?
And in words precise, decorous,
And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited

Ah ! still I see your soft white hand several psalms.

Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight;

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; How without abruptly ending

The double Castles guard the wings ; This my visit, and offending

The Bishop, bent on distant things, Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em. Moves, sidling, through the fight.

ployed my mental care ; When the butler, bowing lowly,

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly,

And falter; falls your golden hair “Madam, please, the gardener wants you," —

Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer.

Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow, her soldiery all between,

And checks me unaware.
“ Pardon me !" she grandly uttered ;
Bowing low, I gladly muttered,

Ah me! the little battle's done : “Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to Disperst is all its chivalry. scan the daughter's face :

Full many a move since then have we Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes

Mid life's perplexing checkers made, From beneath those pencilled lashes!

And many a game with fortune played ; How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Na What is it we have won ? ture's brilliant grace.

This, this at least, – if this alone :

Brightly springs the prisoned fountain

From the side of Delphi's mountain
When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant

life is thrust aside;
So the long-enforced stagnation

Of the maiden's conversation
Now imparted five-fold brilliance to its ever-

varying tide.

That never, never, nevermore,
As in those old still nights of yore,

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,)

Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather,

And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS.

Widely ranging, quickly changing,

Witty, winning, from beginning
Cato end I listened, merely flinging in a casual

word;
Eloquent, and yet how simple!

Hand and eye, and eddying dimple,
Tongue and lip together made a music seen as

well as heard.

“When your beauty appears,

In its graces and airs,
All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies,

At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eyes !