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THE NYMPH'S REPLY.
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,
O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
O whistle, &c.
O whistle, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. For fear, &c.
O whistle, &c.
If that the world and love were young,
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
GO, HAPPY ROSE.
Come, live with me, and be my love,
Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove
Tell her, too, she must not be
That so oft hath fettered me.
Tell her, if she struggle still,
For to tame, though not to kill. Take then my blessing thus, and go, And tell her this, — but do not so !
Lest a handsome anger fly,
· THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.
Every wedding, says the proverb,
Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage
So glossy your hair is,
Quite Grecian your nose is,
Not the beauty of tulips,
Most beautiful Kate !
Not the black eyes of Juno,
Can equal your own!
0, how my heart prances, And frolics and dances, When its radiant glances
Upon me are thrown !
And now, dearest Kitty,
To keep me in sorrow!
So, if you 'll but chime in,
She stood breast high amid the corn,
On her cheek an autumn flush
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
And her hat, with shady brim,
Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree,
Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree;
Which should be flowing free:
Och hone! widow machree !
Och hone! widow machree!
In whispering to me,
MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Widow machree, now the summer is come, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Och hone! widow machree,
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
And a nameless longing filled her breast,
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow, across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
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."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether , And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
“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,
THE FORMAL CALL.
suit her eye.
CHARLES G. HALPINE
When the noonday woods are ringing,
All the birds of summer singing,
serpent nigh :
So upon the door a rattle
Stopped our animated tattle,
downcast eyes ;
Ranged from polar climes to tropic,
THE CHESS-BOARD. For her mother stiff and stately,
My little love, do you remember, As if starched and ironed lately –
Ere we were grown so sadly wise, bat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in cury
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather, ing palms; There she sat on guard before us,
When you and I played chess together, And in words precise, decorous,
Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 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
And checks me unaware.
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 :