TOMMY'S DEAD.

There's a mildew and a mould;

The sun's going out over head,
And I'm very old;

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys?
You're all born and bred;
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed;
And she's gone before, boys;

And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,

Upon his curly head;

She knew she'd never see't, boys,

And she stole off to bed;

I've been sitting up alone, boys,

For he'd come home, he said;
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys;

Bring out the beer and bread;

Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead ;

There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,

There's something ill wi' the bread;

I don't care to sup, boys;

And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,

I've such a sleepy head;

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

I shall never more be stout, boys;
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys?
The prayers are all said,
The fire's raked out, boys;
And Tommy's dead.

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head;

The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed;
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys;
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys;

You may shake my hand instead.

All things go amiss, boys;

You may lay me where she is, boys,

And I'll rest my old head.

'Tis a poor world, this, boys;

And Tommy's dead.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

My love he built me a bonny bower,
And clad it a' wi' lilye flour;

A brawer bower ye ne'er did see
Than my true love he built for me.

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

There came a man, by middle day;
He spied his sport, and went away;
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse, myself alane;
I watched his body, night and day;
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat;

I digged a grave, and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair,

When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair?
O think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair
I'll chain my heart for evermair.

ANONYMOUS.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot:
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

O, where are the mourners?

Alas! there are none:

He has left not a gap in the world,

now he's gone:
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach.
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

WINIFREDA.

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!

THOMAS NOEL.

WINIFREDA.

AWAY! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.