Widow machree, now the summer is come, Och hone! widow machree, Could you sleep in your Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying "Och hone! widow machree !" V. Then take my advice, darling widow machree, And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me, You'd have me to desire Then to stir up the fire; In whispering to me, MAUD MULLER. SAMUEL LOVER. MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. When everything smiles, should a beauty look Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest A wish, that she hardly dared to own, The Judge rode slowly down the lane, He drew his bridle in the shade And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether | And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, "My father should wear a broadcloth coat, My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. “And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still: "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay. "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go; "Free as when I rode that day And oft, when the summer sun shone hot And, gazing down with a timid grace, The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, A manly form at her side she saw, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas for maiden, alas for judge, God pity them both! and pity us all, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies And, in the hereafter, angels may JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. QUAKERDOM. THE FORMAL CALL. THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet Flashed the soul of frolic riot, When the noonday woods are ringing, All the birds of summer singing, Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a serpent nigh: So upon the door a rattle Stopped our animated tattle, And a most malicious laughter lighted up her And the stately mother found us prim enough to downcast eyes; All in vain I tried each topic, Ranged from polar climes to tropic, Every commonplace I started met with yes-orno replies. suit her eye. CHARLES G. HALPINE THE CHESS-BOARD. My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me! the little battle's done : Disperst is all its chivalry. Full many a move since then have we Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with fortune played; What is it we have won? This, this at least, if this alone: KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. "O, what shall I do now?'t was looking at you now! Sure, sure, sucha pitcher I 'll ne'er meet again! 'T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'T was hay-making season- I can't tell the rea son Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE. |