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THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,

MY LAD.

O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na' comin' to me.
And come, &c.

O whistle, &c.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o'your bonnie black e'e,
* Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Yet look, &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,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's 'spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, –
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, –
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy lov

ROBERT BURNS.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

2

GO, HAPPY ROSE.

Come, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love !

Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,

That so oft hath fettered me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ;

Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,

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,
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I.

ROBERT HERRICK.

· THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

I.

Every wedding, says the proverb,

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

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

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So glossy your hair is,
Like a sylph's or a fairy's;
And your neck, I declare, is

Exquisitely pretty!

Quite Grecian your nose is,
And your cheeks are like roses,
So delicious -- O Moses !

Surpassingly sweet!

Not the beauty of tulips,
Nor the taste of mint-juleps,
Can compare with your two lips,

Most beautiful Kate !

Not the black eyes of Juno,
Nor Minerva's of blue, no,
Nor Venus's, you know,

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,
It's not very pretty,
Indeed it's a pity,

To keep me in sorrow!

So, if you 'll but chime in,
We'll have done with our rhymin',
Swap Cupid for Hymen,
And be married to-morrow.

ANONYMOUS

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened ; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell ;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

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Then take my advice, darling widow machree,

Och hone! widow machree,
And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me,

Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,

Och hone! widow machree;
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black

gown,
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear,
'T is destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,

Och hone! widow machree !

Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire ;
And sure hope is no liar

In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart
When you 'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree!

SAMUEL LOVER.

MAUD MULLER.

II.

III.

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
Now in couples agree ;

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,

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,

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 filed;

Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

IV.

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.

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“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,

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THE FORMAL CALL.

suit her eye.

CHARLES G. HALPINE

QUAKERDOM.

When the noonday woods are ringing,

All the birds of summer singing,
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 to

downcast eyes ;
All in vain I tried each topic,

Ranged from polar climes to tropic,
Every commonplace I started met with yes-or-
no replies.

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
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 :

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