THE LITTLE BROWN MAN.

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE LITTLE BROWN MAN.

A LITTLE man we've here,

All in a suit of brown,

Upon town;

He's as brisk as bottled beer,

And, without a shilling rent,

Lives content :

THE LITTLE BROWN MAN.

"For d'ye see," says he, "my plan,

D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!'

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

When every mad grisette

He has toasted, till his score

Holds no more,

Then, head and ears in debt,

When the duns and bums abound

All around,

"D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

When the rain comes through his attic,

And he lies all day abed,

Without bread;

When the winter winds rheumatic

Make him blow his nails, for dire

Want of fire,

"D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!" Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

His wife, a dashing figure,

Makes shift to pay her clothes

By her beaux ;

The gallanter they rig her,

THE LITTLE BROWN MAN..

The more the people sneer

At her dear:

"Then d'ye see," says he, "my plan,

D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!" Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

When at last laid fairly level,

And the priest (he getting worse)

'Gan discourse

Of Death and of the Devil,

THE BUCKET.

Our little sinner sighed,

And replied:

“Please your reverence, my plan,

Please your reverence, my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!"

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!
PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER. (French.)

Translation of WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE BUCKET.

childhood,

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!

TO CELIA.

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.