Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness, He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from
Ireland;

He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

He fought at Cremona, she hears of his story;
He fought at Cassano, - she's proud of his glory,
Yet sadly she sings "Shule Aroon" all the day,
"O, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."

Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh

broken-hearted,

parted;

I feel I am alone.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him : I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O, pray, too, for me!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE students were travelling over the Rhine; They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign;

"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? And where is that dear little daughter of thine?"

"My beer and wine are fresh and clear;
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier!"
And when to the chamber they made their way,
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay.

The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised,
And on her pale face he mournfully gazed:
"Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said,
"I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid!"

The second he slowly put back the shroud,
And turned him away and wept aloud:
"Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier!
Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!"

The third he once more uplifted the veil,
And kissed her upon her mouth so pale:
"Thee loved I always; I love still but thee;
And thee will I love through eternity!"

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

THY BRAES WERE BONNY. THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should nevermore behold him!

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear me weeping;
Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The night I'll mak' it narrow,
For a' the livelang winter night
I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O, came ye by yon water-side?
Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or came you by yon meadow green,
Or saw you my sweet Willie ?"

She sought him up, she sought him down,
She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,

She found him drowned in Yarrow!

MARY'S DREAM.

ANONYMOUS.

THE moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest ;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more!" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

JOHN LOWR

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young

gold.

So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.
There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ROBERT BROWNING.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still

The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary,