Pull, pull and the pail is full, And milking's done and over. Who would not sit here under the tree? What a fair fair thing 's a green field to see! Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me! I have set my pail on the daisies! It seems so light, can the sun be set? The cows they may low, the bells they may ring, The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet. But I'll neither milk nor marry, Fillpail, Neither milk nor marry. My brow beats on thy flank, Filpail, Give down, good wench, give down, Filpail, Strain, strain! he 's whistling again, He's nearer by half a mile. More, more! O, never before Were you such a weary while! Fill, fill he's crossed the hill, I can see him down by the stile, He's passed the hay, he 's coming this way, Fillpail, I can milk and marry. Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through, Low in the grass and high on the bough, O world, have you ever a lover? I could cry to have hurt the daisies! Harry is near, Harry is near, My heart's as sick as if he were here, The air's astir with your praises. He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, When I go to my Harry! He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe, There's never a faster foot I trow, But still he seems to tarry. O Harry! O Harry! my love, my pride, Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, We'll drink our can, we 'll eat our cake, The world may sleep, the world may wake, And marry, I shall milk and marry. SYDNEY DOBELL. Till once, through lanes returning late, We paused with one presentient mind: Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free, Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word; • Till we meet again; like au revoir in French. He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, "O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, From the ears where he had placed them my rings But in the North long since my nest is made. of pearl unloosed; "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe That I've thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; "O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. "O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." ALFRED TENNYSON. "ASK ME NO MORE." FROM "THE PRINCESS." Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But, Otoo fond! when have I answered thee? Ask me no more. That musing on my lover, when down the sun was Ask me no more: what answer should I give? gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. "O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH." FROM "THE PRINCESS." "O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. "O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest cach, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed : ATHULF. ALFRED TENNYSON. ATHULF AND ETHILDA. Appeared "O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow and So closely as to hide it: this being tried light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. "O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died! 46 Was proved against him; he insisted then Of half-bewildered pleasure: from which trance Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, held out love, Delaying as the tender ash delays Her arrowy hand. I thought it trembled as it lay in mine, To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free, And said that she felt nothing. SIDROC. As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom. HENRY TAYLOR. SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. I LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover FATIMA AND RADUAN. FROM THE SPANISH. "Diamante falso y fingido, Engastado en pedernal," etc. "FALSE diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast! By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest. Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind. If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. Oh! I could chide thee sharply, but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover forgives him ere he goes. Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightin-Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Gra gale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late! nada's maids, Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades; And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and That what thou didst to win my love, for love of "You night-moths that hover where honey brims "It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, their dim- | A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, ness does me wrong; If my heart be made of flint, at least 't will keep Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with thy image long; the other. Thou hast uttered cruel words,—but I grieve the Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; less for those, Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere Noiseless and light to the lattice above her he goes." The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands, SOMEBODY. ALICE CARY. SOMEBODY's courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody, Under this clear moonlight. |