Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,— Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,— I considered it only my duty to call And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her—as ladies are apt to be found When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual—I found—I won't say I caught—her Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered—"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust; for 'tis now nine or more: So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your Ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty and graces and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher, I should like above all things to go with you there; But really and truly—I've nothing to wear."

"Nothing to wear? Go just as you are: Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" So I ventured again—"Wear your crimson brocade." (Second turn-up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade."— "Your blue silk—" "That's too heavy."—"Your pink—" "That's too light."— "Wear tulle over satin." "I can't endure white."— "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch—" "I haven't a thread of point lace to match."— "Your brown moire-antique—" "Yes, and look like a Quaker."— "The pearl-colored—" "I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week."—"Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." (Here the nose took again the same elevation)— "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen."— "Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine, That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine—" "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash— Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you!—oh, you men have no feeling. You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher): "I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot; You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, As gentle expletives which might give relief: But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears; And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too, Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say: Then, without going through the form of a bow, Found myself in the entry,—I hardly knew how,— On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,— Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole do you think he would have much time to spare If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

William Allen Butler.



MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine's— Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet!

The faery stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights, To Geraldine's were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



MRS. SMITH

Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid! Then Di was fair and single; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair—and married!

A blissful swain—I scorn'd the song Which says that though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger; Breezes then blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer.

That day I saw and much esteem'd Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd Inclined to smother; It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbon of her shoes, first one, And then the other.

I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy!"

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left; Says Di, "The stubble Is very stupid!—as I live, I'm quite ashamed!—I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble!"

For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act— A trouble? not the least! in fact It's rather pleasant!"

I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs. Smith— And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!— I think that Smith is thought an ass; I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



A TERRIBLE INFANT

I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "Aha! When I can talk I'll tell Mamma" —And that's my earliest recollection.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



SUSAN

A KIND PROVIDENCE

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing swain; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And—would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain? She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye, And let herself be woo'd again.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



"I DIDN'T LIKE HIM"

Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately, Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant. Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately; Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present. I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago, Fo' now dat I am in de social swim I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau, So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.

refrain

Oh, I didn't like his clo'es, An' I didn't like his eyes, Nor his walk, nor his talk, Nor his ready-made neckties. I didn't like his name a bit, Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim; If dem ere reasons ain't enough, I didn't like Him.

Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone. Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor. Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone, Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur. Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row. P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack; Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how; But I had to go to jail or give it back.

refrain

Oh, I didn't like his trade; Trade dat kep' him out all night. He'd de look ob a crook, An' he owned a bull's-eye light. So when policemen come to ask What I know 'bout dat Jim, I come to de confusion dat I didn't like Him.

Harry B. Smith.



MY ANGELINE

She kept her secret well, oh, yes, Her hideous secret well. We together were cast, I knew not her past; For how was I to tell? I married her, guileless lamb I was; I'd have died for her sweet sake. How could I have known that my Angeline Had been a Human Snake? Ah, we had been wed but a week or two When I found her quite a wreck: Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot At the back of her swan-like neck. No curse there sprang to my pallid lips, Nor did I reproach her then; I calmly untied my bonny bride And straightened her out again.

Refrain

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-beloved circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline! At night I'd wake at the midnight hour, With a weird and haunted feeling, And there she'd be, in her robe de nuit, A-walking upon the ceiling. She said she was being "the human fly," And she'd lift me up from beneath By a section slight of my garb of night, Which she held in her pearly teeth. For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake I'd have stood this conduct shady; But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend, An eminent bearded lady. But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light, Regret comes o'er me stealing; For I miss the sound of those little feet, As they pattered along the ceiling.

Refrain

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-beloved circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline!

Harry B. Smith.



NORA'S VOW

Hear what Highland Nora said,— "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made and lightly broke, The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel; But Nora's heart is lost and won, —She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Sir Walter Scott.



HUSBAND AND HEATHEN

O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia, And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan, Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes, And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan; And she said she loved 'em so, Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo. If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly Loaded down with jam and jelly, Succotash and vermicelli, Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.

She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee And give cake in fullest measure To the men of Australasia And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea; And the Anthropophagi, All their lives deprived of pie, She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince; And those miserable Australians And the Borrioboolighalians, She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince.

But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers, Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf; If the men of Madagascar, And the natives of Alaska, Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself. And his coat had but one tail And he used a shingle nail To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work; And she used to spend his money To buy sugar-plums and honey For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.

Sam Walter Foss.



THE LOST PLEIAD

'Twas a pretty little maiden In a garden gray and old, Where the apple trees were laden With the magic fruit of gold; But she strayed beyond the portal Of the garden of the Sun, And she flirted with a mortal, Which she oughtn't to have done! For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother, She was Merope or Sterope—the one or else the other; And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich, Of Merope or Sterope—I don't remember which!

Now the giant's daughters seven, She among them, if you please, Were translated to the heaven As the starry Pleiades! But amid their constellation One alone was always dark, For she shrank from observation Or censorious remark.

She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter. She was Merope or Sterope—the former or the latter; So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call On Merope or Sterope—I am not sure at all!

But the Dog-star, brightly shining In the hottest of July, Saw the pretty Pleiad pining In the shadow of the sky, And he courted her and kissed her Till she kindled into light; And the Pleiads' erring sister Was the lady of the night!

So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned, To Merope or Sterope—the first or else the second, And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame As Merope or Sterope—I can't recall her name!

Arthur Reed Ropes.



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN

They've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' my voice and vote; For it was never my desire To praise the Lord by note.

I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led; And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn— I s'pose I al'ays will— It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice was good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right. When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know They play a little tune; I didn't understand, and so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown—I could but look— She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off.

An' Deacon Tubbs—he all broke 'down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. And when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And nevermore come back; And when the folks gets up to sing— Whene'er that time shall be— I do not want no patent thing A-squealin' over me!

Will Carteton.



LARRIE O'DEE

Now the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he: "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane."

"Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

"Now, piggy," says she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!" "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

William W. Fink.



NO FAULT IN WOMEN

No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny. No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they've nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else. No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

Robert Herrick.



A COSMOPOLITAN WOMAN

She went round and asked subscriptions For the heathen black Egyptians And the Terra del Fuegians, She did; For the tribes round Athabasca, And the men of Madagascar, And the poor souls of Alaska, So she did; She longed, she said, to buy Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie, For the Anthropophagi, So she did.

Her heart ached for the Australians And the Borriobooli-Ghalians, And the poor dear Amahagger, Yes, it did; And she loved the black Numidian, And the ebon Abyssinian, And the charcoal-coloured Guinean, Oh, she did! And she said she'd cross the seas With a ship of bread and cheese For those starving Chimpanzees, So she did.

How she loved the cold Norwegian And the poor half-melted Feejeean, And the dear Molucca Islander, She did: She sent tins of red tomato To the tribes beyond the Equator, But her husband ate potato, So he did; The poor helpless, homeless thing (My voice falters as I sing) Tied his clothes up with a string, Yes, he did.

Unknown.



COURTING IN KENTUCKY.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way. I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say"; Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:. But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'" An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."

Florence E. Pratt.



ANY ONE WILL DO

A maiden once, of certain age, To catch a husband did engage; But, having passed the prime of life In striving to become a wife Without success, she thought it time To mend the follies of her prime.

Departing from the usual course Of paint and such like for resource, With all her might this ancient maid Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed; Unconscious that a grave old owl Was perched above—the mousing fowl!

"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried, "While yet I may become a bride; Soon will my day of grace be o'er, And then, like many maids before, I'll die without an early Jove, And none to meet me there above!

"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear! Then answer this my humble prayer, And oh, a husband give to me!" Just then the owl from out the tree, In deep bass tones cried, "Who—who—who!" "Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who? Why, any one, good Lord, will do."

Unknown.



A BIRD IN THE HAND

There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord is not rich enough, The one is too poor, and one is too tall, And one just an inch too short for them all. "Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee. There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be, And one is deaf, and one cannot see, And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree, These three old maids of Lee. Now, if any one chanced—'tis a chance remote— One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf and one cannot see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be. He may take the one, or the two, or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee. There are three old maids at Lee; They are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee.

Frederic E. Weatherly.



THE BELLE OF THE BALL

Years—years ago,—ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty,— Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;— Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd,—of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand— She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun— I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first—the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,—and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves— A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows—and then we parted.

We parted;—months and years roll'd by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh—- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ballroom belle, But only—Mrs. Something Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.



THE RETORT

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!—and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said, "Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"

George Pope Morris.



BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it— So mind you that—before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae—I dinna care— But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye de douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten—before folk.

Alexander Rodger.



THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD

Margarita first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita, first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face.

Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsel ta'en: Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke.

Mary then and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began, Alternately they swayed: And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd.

Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free.

When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me, But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead.

One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power, Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place.

But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about Greater conquests to find out: She beat out Susan by the bye.

But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy: Thousand worse passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy.

Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria: And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et caetera.

But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines:

If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless, mysteries!

And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell All change of weather that befel) Than Holinshed or Stow.

But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me: An higher and a nobler strain My present empress does claim, Eleonora, first o' th' name, Whom God grant long to reign.

Abraham Cowley.



BUXOM JOAN

A soldier and a sailor, A tinker and a tailor, Had once a doubtful strife, sir, To make a maid a wife, sir, Whose name was Buxom Joan. For now the time was ended, When she no more intended To lick her lips at men, sir, And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, And lie o' nights alone.

The soldier swore like thunder, He loved her more than plunder; And showed her many a scar, sir, That he had brought from far, sir, With fighting for her sake. The tailor thought to please her, With offering her his measure. The tinker too with mettle, Said he could mend her kettle, And stop up every leak.

But while these three were prating, The sailor slily waiting, Thought if it came about, sir, That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part. And just e'en as he meant, sir, To loggerheads they went, sir, And then he let fly at her A shot 'twixt wind and water, That won this fair maid's heart.

William Congreve.



OH, MY GERALDINE

Oh, my Geraldine, No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um. You are my lum ti toodle lay, Pretty, pretty queen, Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen, More sweet than tiddle lum in May. Like the star so bright That somethings all the night, My Geraldine! You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen, Hark! there is what—ho! From something—um, you know, Dear, what I mean. Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.

F. C. Burnand.



THE PARTERRE

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses buttoning there.

It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be What grass 'neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers.

The Envoy

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses buttoning there.

E. H. Palmer.



HOW TO ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are decaivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go;— If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel, Sweet Mary?" says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!" "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see: Since my parents are both so conthrairy, You'd better ask me."

Samuel Lover.



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like Pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. There's ne'er a lady in the land That's half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed, all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and, box and all, I'll give it to my honey; Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; For she's the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for her I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, Oh, then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live— But not in our alley.

Henry Carey.



FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC

THE DISCONSOLATE

My heart will break—I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favorite—he Who seemed my own through good and ill— Has basely turned his back on me.

THE COMFORTER

Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head before, And now he's as he ought to be.

Laman Blanchard.



PET'S PUNISHMENT

O, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I'd catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses.

But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty jewelled fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout, Like many pert young misses, I'd wind my arm her waist about, And punish her—with kisses!

J. Ashby-Sterry.



AD CHLOEN, M.A.

FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

Mortimer Collins.



CHLOE, M.A.

AD AMANTEM SUAM

Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [pi]?

If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees— Music of sweet Sophocles— Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps—and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet.

Mortimer Collins.



THE FAIR MILLINGER

By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor

It was a millinger most gay, As sat within her shop; A student came along that way, And in he straight did pop. Clean shaven he, of massive mould, He thought his looks was killing her; So lots of stuff to him she sold: "Thanks!" says the millinger.

He loafed around and seemed to try On all things to converse; The millinger did mind her eye, But also mound his purse. He tried, then, with his flattering tongue, With nonsense to be filling her; But she was sharp, though she was young: "Thanks," said the millinger.

He asked her to the theatre, They got into my car; Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir, He thought the way not far. A pretty pict-i-ure she made, No doctors had been pilling her; Fairly the fair one's fare he paid: "Thanks!" said the millinger.

When we arrived in Bowdoin Square, A female to them ran; Then says that millinger so fair: "O, thank you, Mary Ann! She's going with us, she is," says she, "She only is fulfilling her Duty in looking after me: Thanks!" said that millinger.

"Why," says that student chap to her, "I've but two seats to hand." "Too bad," replied that millinger, "Then you will have to stand." "I won't stand this," says he, "I own The joke which you've been drilling her; Here, take the seats and go alone!" "Thanks!" says the millinger.

That ere much-taken-down young man Stepped back into my car. We got fresh horses, off they ran; He thought the distance far. And now she is my better half, And oft, when coo-and-billing her, I think about that chap and laugh: "Thanks!" says my millinger.

Fred W. Loring.



TWO FISHERS

One morning when Spring was in her teens— A morn to a poet's wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens— Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sun-tan's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped—vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond-lilies teeter, And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited, But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came, My bag hung flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game— A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.

Unknown.



MAUD

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow, With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear That our ball has been quite a success. As for me—I've been looking a monster, my dear. In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; It is getting so dreadfully late. You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice— For I know you're in want of repose: Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice), And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. As to you—if you like it, of course you can stay, You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs About "babble and revel and wine," When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, Why, it's not the least business of mine.

Henry S. Leigh.



ARE WOMEN FAIR?

"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

Francis Davison.



THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies— And the sweetest I maintain Was Caddie, That I took unneath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain.

She said that the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain: "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This selfsame winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane), Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?"

Charles Sibley.



FEMININE ARITHMETIC

LAURA On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble— For I was but eighteen in spring While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

Charles Graham Halpine.



LORD GUY

When swallows Northward flew Forth from his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

Swore he to cross the brine, Pausing not, night nor day, That he might Paynims slay In Palestine.

Half a league on his way Met he a shepherdess Beaming with loveliness— Fair as Young Day.

Gazed he in eyes of blue— Saw love in hiding there Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

"Let the foul Paynim wait!" Plead Love, "and stay with me. Cruel and cold the sea— Here's brighter fate."

When swallows Southward flew Back to his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

Led he his charger gay Bearing a shepherdess Beaming with happiness— Fair as Young Day.

White lambs, be-ribboned blue— Tends now with anxious care, Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

George F. Warren.



SARY "FIXES UP" THINGS

Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun' Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town. (Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified, Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.) But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me, "Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she. Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life, An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife.

Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess; An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess; Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers, An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers. An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft; Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left; An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's, But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds.

Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed; But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed; An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed." "Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me! I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she. "When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet, I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set."

Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said, 'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed; An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style; An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while. Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she; But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use, We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose.

Albert Bigelow Paine.



THE CONSTANT CANNIBAL MAIDEN

Far, oh, far is the Mango island, Far, oh, far is the tropical sea— Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me.

I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish, And Indian maidens both red and brown, A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish, And a Puritan lassie of Salem town.

For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing, A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine, And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing Of all of the wimming I ever seen.

But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur, With a habit of gazin' over the sea, A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er, And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me.

Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double— Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed, And the Danish damsel she made me trouble When she ups and married an oblong Swede. But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango, Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork, As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango, A-waitin' for me—with a knife and fork.

Wallace Irwin.



WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES

O reverend sir, I do declare It drives me most to frenzy, To think of you a-lying there Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer, Without sich trouble as this ere To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation, And always ought to be underwent By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes, And do my best to cure you up, If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair; That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend, Priscilla Pool Bedott .

Frances Miriam Whitcher.



UNDER THE MISTLETOE

She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door, Quite conscious of the sprig above, Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I—just one—my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it—if—you dare!" she said.

He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room, And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart, Then pressed it to her lips. "My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you—cared You surely would have—would have—dared."

George Francis Shults.



THE BROKEN PITCHER

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell. When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo— Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,— A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water—the pitcher is in pieces— And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde."

He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree— He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden—behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,— "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

William E. Aytoun.



GIFTS RETURNED

"You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do." "'Tis done already, mother dear!" Said the sweet girl, "So never fear." Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount (There was not much) the whole amount. Girl. The locket; the kid gloves. Mother. Go on. Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one. Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed. You gave back all his trash? Girl. Indeed. Mother. And was there nothing you would save? Girl. Everything I could give I gave. Mother. To the last tittle? Girl. Even to that. Mother. Freely? Girl. My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me! ah me! I cry so I can hardly see ... All the fond looks and words that past, And all the kisses, to the last.

Walter Savage Landor.



III

LOVE AND COURTSHIP



NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH

There once was a Shah had a second son Who was very unlike his elder one, For he went about on his own affairs, And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers; When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

But worst of all of the pranks he played Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,— An Armenian maid who wore no veil, Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale; At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

"I will shut him close in an iron cage," The monarch said, in a fuming rage; But the prince slipped out by a postern door, And away to the mountains his loved one bore; Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

And still in the town of Teheran, When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,— All frowns and threats with a laugh defy, And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,— Folk meet and greet with a gay "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

Clinton Scollard.



THE USUAL WAY

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay: But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well—they do—in the usual way.

Frederic E. Weatherly.



THE WAY TO ARCADY

Oh, what's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree— The tree the wind is blowing through— It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady.

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know— Across the clover and the snow— Across the frost, across the flowers— Through summer seconds and winter hours I've trod the way my whole life long, And know not now where it may be; My guide is but the stir to song, That tells me I cannot go wrong, Or clear or dark the pathway be Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time— There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he)— Your hair is white, your face is wise— That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes Who hopes to see fair Arcady? No gold can buy you entrance there; But beggared Love may go all bare— No wisdom won with weariness; But Love goes in with Folly's dress— No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new— But far away, and half forgot— I only know her eyes were blue; But Love—I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady. Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory. With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree. Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands— Her face all gladdening at the sound— To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands. The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her. My maid is dead long years (quoth he), She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry.

H. C. Bunner.



MY LOVE AND MY HEART

Oh, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny Through her tiny tiny glove. Was I very deeply smitten? Oh, I loved like anything! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times. Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart. And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding ring— But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover What I learn'd a month ago. We are scratch'd or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling. Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Henry S. Leigh.



QUITE BY CHANCE

She flung the parlour window wide One eve of mid-July, And he, as fate would have it tide, That moment sauntered by. His eyes were blue and hers were brown, With drooping fringe of jet; And he looked up as she looked down, And so their glances met. Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day.

A mile beyond the straggling street, A quiet pathway goes; And lovers here are wont to meet, As all the country knows. Now she one night at half-past eight Had sought that lonely lane, When he came up, by will of fate, And so they met again. Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day.

The parish church, so old and gray, Is quite a sight to see; And he was there at ten one day, And so, it chanced, was she. And while they stood, with cheeks aflame, And neighbours liked the fun, In stole and hood the parson came, And made the couple one. Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day.

Frederick Langbridge.



THE NUN

SUGGESTED BY PART OF THE ITALIAN SONG, BEGINNING "SE MONECA TI FAI."

I

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show: What! you become a nun, my dear! I'll not believe it, no.

II

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chaunt "We trust in thee"; The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear! You may—but they'll be mine.

Leigh Hunt.



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me— Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha—would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash—otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly tertium quid, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?

Unknown.



CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl— The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother; A feeble flame around the lamp did curl, Making faint shadows, blending in each other: 'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November; She had a shawl on, also, I remember.

Well, I had been to see her every night For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion To pop the question, thinking all was right, And once or twice had make an awkward motion To take her hand, and stammer'd, cough'd, and stutter'd, But, somehow, nothing to the point had utter'd.

I thought this chance too good now to be lost; I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her, Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross'd, Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her: She looked as if she knew what next was coming, And with her feet upon the floor was drumming.

I didn't know how to begin, or where— I couldn't speak—the words were always choking; I scarce could move—I seem'd tied to the chair— I hardly breathed—'twas awfully provoking! The perspiration from each pore came oozing, My heart, and brain, and limbs their power seem'd losing.

At length I saw a brindle tabby cat Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her; An idea came, electric-like at that— My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter, I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me, And said, "Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me."

'Twas done at once—the murder now was out; The thing was all explain'd in half a minute. She blush'd, and, turning pussy-cat about, Said, "Pussy, tell him 'yes'"; her foot was in it! The cat had thus saved me my category, And here's the catastrophe of my story.

Unknown.



LANTY LEARY

Lanty was in love, you see, With lovely, lively Rosie Carey; But her father can't agree To give the girl to Lanty Leary. Up to fun, "Away we'll run," Says she, "my father's so contrary. Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.

But her father died one day (I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather); House and land and cash, they say, He left, by will, to Rose, his daughter; House and land and cash to seize, Away she cut so light and airy. "Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.

Rose, herself, was taken bad; The fayver worse each day was growin'; "Lanty, dear," says she, "'tis sad, To th' other world I'm surely goin'. You can't survive my loss, I know, Nor long remain in Tipperary. Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I won't!" says Lanty Leary.

Samuel Lover.



THE SECRET COMBINATION

Her heart she locked fast in her breast, Away from molestation; The lock was warranted the best— A patent combination. She knew no simple lock and key Would serve to keep out Love and me.

But Love a clever cracksman is, And cannot be resisted; He likes such stubborn jobs as this, Complex and hard and twisted, And though we worked a many day, At last we bore her heart away.

For Love has learned full many tricks In his strange avocation; He knew the figures were but six In this, her combination; Nor did we for a minute rest Until we had unlocked her breast.

First, then, we turned the knob to "Sighs," Then back to "Words Sincerest," Then "Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes," Then "Softly Murmured 'Dearest;'" Then, next, "A Warm Embrace" we tried, And at "A Kiss" the door flew wide.

Ellis Parker Butler.



FORTY YEARS AFTER

We climbed to the top of Goat Point hill, Sweet Kitty, my sweetheart, and I; And watched the moon make stars on the waves, And the dim white ships go by, While a throne we made on a rough stone wall, And the king and the queen were we; And I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me.

The water was mad in the moonlight, And the sand like gold where it shone, And our hearts kept time to its music, As we sat in the splendour alone. And Kitty's dear eyes twinkled brightly, And Kitty's brown hair blew so free, While I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me.

Last night we drove in our carriage, To the wall at the top of the hill; And though we're forty years older, We're children and sweethearts still. And we talked again of that moonlight That danced so mad on the sea, When I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me.

The throne on the wall was still standing, But we sat in the carriage last night, For a wall is too high for old people Whose foreheads have linings of white. And Kitty's waist measure is forty, While mine is full fifty and three, So I can't get my arm about Kitty, Nor can she get both hers around me.

H. H. Porter.



CUPID

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called love, a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus' runaway.

He hath of marks about him plenty; Ye shall know him among twenty; All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.

Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet; All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears.

If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him, Since ye hear his falser play, And that he's Venus' runaway.

Ben Jonson.



PARING-TIME ANTICIPATED

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced, then, on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And, with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length a bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd, Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: "My friends, be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet." A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: "Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, "Opposite in the apple-tree, By his good-will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or—which is likelier to befall— 'Til death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado. My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turned short 'round, strutting, and sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments, so well express'd, Influenced mightily the rest; All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow. Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL

Misses, the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry: Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

William Cowper.



WHY

Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snare Or the tabby cat's shot on the tiles? Why the tigers and lions creep out of their lair? Why an ostrich will travel for miles? Do you know why a sane man will whimper and cry And weep o'er a ribbon or glove? Why a cook will put sugar for salt in a pie? Do you know? Well, I'll tell you—it's Love.

H. P. Stevens.



THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE

I

'Twas on a windy night, At two o'clock in the morning, An Irish lad so tight, All wind and weather scorning, At Judy Callaghan's door. Sitting upon the palings, His love-tale he did pour, And this was part of his wailings:— Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

II

Oh! list to what I say, Charms you've got like Venus; Own your love you may, There's but the wall between us. You lie fast asleep Snug in bed and snoring; Round the house I creep, Your hard heart imploring. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

III

I've got a pig and a sow, I've got a sty to sleep 'em A calf and a brindled cow, And a cabin too, to keep 'em; Sunday hat and coat, An old grey mare to ride on, Saddle and bridle to boot, Which you may ride astride on. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

IV

I've got an acre of ground, I've got it set with praties; I've got of 'baccy a pound, I've got some tea for the ladies; I've got the ring to wed, Some whisky to make us gaily; I've got a feather bed And a handsome new shillelagh. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

V

You've got a charming eye, You've got some spelling and reading You've got, and so have I, A taste for genteel breeding; You're rich, and fair, and young, As everybody's knowing; You've got a decent tongue Whene'er 'tis set a-going. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

VI

For a wife till death I am willing to take ye; But, och! I waste my breath, The devil himself can't wake ye. 'Tis just beginning to rain, So I'll get under cover; To-morrow I'll come again, And be your constant lover. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan.

Father Prout.



I HAE LAID A HERRING IN SAUT

I hae laid a herring in saut— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut, And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a calf that will soon be a cow— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe, And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a house upon yon moor— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; Three sparrows may dance upon the floor, And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a but, and I hae a ben— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; A penny to keep, and a penny to spen', And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; That ilka day lays me an egg, And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a cheese upon my skelf— Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself, And I canna come ilka day to woo.

James Tytler.



THE CLOWN'S COURTSHIP

Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me; I prithee now, wilt? and I'll marry thee, My cow, my calf, my house, my rents, And all my lands and tenements: Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do? I cannot come every day to woo.

I've corn and hay in the barn hardby, And three fat hogs pent up in the sty, I have a mare and she is coal black, I ride on her tail to save my back. Then say, etc.

I have a cheese upon the shelf, And I cannot eat it all myself; I've three good marks that lie in a rag, In a nook of the chimney, instead of a bag. Then say, etc.

To marry I would have thy consent, But faith I never could compliment; I can say nought but "Hoy, gee ho!" Words that belong to the cart and the plough. So say, my Joan, will not that do, I cannot come every day to woo.

Unknown.



OUT UPON IT

Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant Lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling.



LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS

I lately lived in quiet case, An' ne'er wish'd to marry, O! But when I saw my Peggy's face, I felt a sad quandary, O! Though wild as ony Athol deer, She has trepann'd me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear Torment me late an' early O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness!

To tell my feats this single week Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart out ow'r a dike, My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue, My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should pleugh, An' pleugh the drills entirely, O! O, love, love, love! etc.

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rase to theek the stable, O! I keust my coat, and plied away As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an look'd about, Gudefaith, it was the byre, O! O, love, love, love! etc.

Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinking o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried with sport to drive't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. O, love, love, love! etc.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness!

James Hogg.



THE KITCHEN CLOCK

Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly, Doing nothing sits the chore boy, Billy: "Seconds reckoned, Seconds reckoned; Every minute, Sixty in it. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Nick-knock, knock-nick, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"— Goes the kitchen clock.

Closer to the fire is rosy Milly, Every whit as close and cosy, Billy: "Time's a-flying, Worth your trying; Pretty Milly— Kiss her, Billy! Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Now—now, quick—quick! Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"— Goes the kitchen clock.

Something's happened, very red is Milly, Billy boy is looking very silly; "Pretty misses, Plenty kisses; Make it twenty, Take a plenty. Billy, Milly, Milly, Billy, Right—left, left—right, That's right, all right, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"— Goes the kitchen clock.

Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy; O, the winter winds are wondrous chilly! "Winter weather, Close together; Wouldn't tarry, Better marry. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Two—one, one—two, Don't wait, 'twon't do, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"— Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two have gone, and where is Milly? Spring has come again, and where is Billy? "Give me credit, For I did it; Treat me kindly, Mind you wind me. Mister Billy, Mistress Milly, My—O, O—my, By-by, by-by, Nickety-knock, cradle rock,"— Goes the kitchen clock.

John Vance Cheney.



LADY MINE

Lady mine, most fair thou art With youth's gold and white and red; 'Tis a pity that thy heart Is so much harder than thy head.

This has stayed my kisses oft, This from all thy charms debarr'd, That thy head is strangely soft, While thy heart is strangely hard.

Nothing had kept us apart— I had loved thee, I had wed— Hadst thou had a softer heart Or a harder head.

But I think I'll bear Love's smart Till the wound has healed and fled, Or thy head is like thy heart, Or thy heart is like thy head.

H. E. Clarke.



BALLADE OF THE GOLFER IN LOVE

In the "foursome" some would fain Find nepenthe for their woe; Following through shine or rain Where the "greens" like satin show; But I vote such sport as "slow"— Find it rather glum and gruesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

In the "threesome," some maintain, Lies excitement's gayest glow— Strife that mounts unto the brain Like the sparkling Veuve Clicquot; My opinion? Nay, not so! Noon or eve or morning dewsome With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

Bays of glory some would gain With grim "Bogey" for their foe; (He's a bogey who's not slain Save one smite with canny blow!) Yet I hold this tame, and though My refrain seems trite, 'tis truesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

envoy

Comrades all who golfing go, Happiness—if you would view some— With a little maid you know, Haste and play a quiet "twosome"!

Clinton Scollard.



BALLADE OF FORGOTTEN LOVES

Some poets sing of sweethearts dead, Some sing of true loves far away; Some sing of those that others wed, And some of idols turned to clay. I sing a pensive roundelay To sweethearts of a doubtful lot, The passions vanished in a day— The little loves that I've forgot.

For, as the happy years have sped, And golden dreams have changed to gray, How oft the flame of love was fed By glance, or smile, from Maud or May, When wayward Cupid was at play; Mere fancies, formed of who knows what, But still my debt I ne'er can pay— The little loves that I've forgot.

O joyous hours forever fled! O sudden hopes that would not stay! Held only by the slender thread Of memory that's all astray. Their very names I cannot say. Time's will is done, I know them not; But blessings on them all, I pray— The little loves that I've forgot.

envoi

Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray? Ours is the one true lovers' knot; Note well the burden of my lay— The little loves that I've forgot.

Arthur Grissom.



IV

SATIRE



A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Envoi

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

G. K. Chesterton.



FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN

Superintendent wuz Flannigan; Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack, An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in; That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, He writed tin pages—did Finnigin, An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on ag'in. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin— He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; An' it wore'm clane an' completely out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin ag'in; Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint—that's Flannigan— Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long ag'in."

* * * * *

Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McGorrigan, As married a Finnigin.

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been ag'in, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night— Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin! An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off ag'in, on ag'in, Gone ag'in—Finnigin."