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Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo :

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be ?

Great, or good, or kinil, or fair,
I will ne'er. the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for nie,
What care I for whom she be ?

COUNTY GUY.

FROM "QL'ENTIN DURWARD."
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,

But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigus o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know,

But where is County Guy?

GEORGE WITHER.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet; Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah! wanton, will ye?

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love ;
Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove;
Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove ?

And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays, if so I sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting :

Whist! wanton, still ye!

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean's ebb and oceau's flow ;
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,
You can be no more, you know.

ROBERT BURXS.

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play,

For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I 'll count your power not worth a pin : Alas! what herehy shall I win

If he gainsay me!

UNSATISFACTORY.

"Have other lovers - say, my love –

Loved thus before to-day?" “They may have, yes, they may, my love ;

Not long ago they may."

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god ;
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me ;

Spare not, but play thee!

“But, though they worshipped thee, my love,

Thy maiden heart was free?" “Don't ask too much of me, my love ;

Don't ask too much of me."

“Yet, now 't is you and I, my love,

Love's wings no more will fly?" “If love could never die, my love,

Our love should never die."

THOMAS LODGE.

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My eyes! how I love you,
You sweet little dove you!
There's no one above you,

Most beautiful Kitty.

ON A PRINT OF ONE OF THEM IN A BOOK,

So glossy your hair is,
Like a sylph's or a fairy's ;
And your neck, I declare, is

Exquisitely pretty. Quite Grecian your nose is, And your cheeks are like roses, So delicious O Moses!

Surpassingly sweet!

Not the beauty, of tulips,
Nor the taste of mint-juleps,
Can compare with your two lips,

Most beautiful Kate!

An exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss,
This art of writing billet-dour
Tu buds, and odors, and bright hues!
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks ;
In puns of tulips ; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom!
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.
What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, anil beds of pansies ;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorons rhetoric of carnations ;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach ;
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight us well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos!
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
('T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

Not the black eyes of Juno,
Nor Minerva's of blue, no,.
Nor Venus's, you know,

Can equal your own!.. ; }],"441

O, how my heart prances,
And frolics and dances,
When its radiant glances

Upon me are thrown!

And now, dearest Kitty,
It's not very pretty,
Indeed it's a pity,

To keep me in sorrow!

So, if yon 'll but chime in,
We'll have done with our rhymin',
Swap Cupid for Hymen,
And be married to-morrow.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE

Then, after we have kissed its wit
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer,

all of lily and rose,
of tuberose and of violet,
Aud Little Darling (mignonette);

CUPID SWALLOWED.

T'other day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap.

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DUNCAN GRAY CAM HERE TO WOO.
DUNCA. GRAY cam' here to woo

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
On blythe Yule night when we were fou

Hi, ha! the wooing o't!
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed

Ha, ha! the woving o't! Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig

Hit, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan sigheid baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Time and chance are but a tide

Hit, ha! the wooing o't! Slighted love is sair to bide

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee?

· France, for me!

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! How it comes let doctors tell

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Meg grew sick as he grew heal

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Something in her hosom wrings, -
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een they speak sic things!

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Duncan was a lad o' grace

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Maggie's was a piteous case ---

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan could na be her death: Swelling pity smoored his wrath. Now they 're crouse and canty haith,

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

She may gae to

THE DULE 'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE

LANCASHIRE DIALECT.

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine:

My ribbins 'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,

For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet ; He met me i'th' lone t' other day

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May,

Bi th' inass, if he 'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his,

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; An' aw durst n't look up in his face,

Becose on him seein' my e'en.
My cheek went as red as a rose;

There 's never a mortal con tell
Heaw happy aw felt, — for, thae knows,

One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung :

To let it eawt would n't be reet,
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung;

So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-nert.
But, Mally, thae knows very weel,

Though it is u't a thing one should own, Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o'tli' world to mysel',

Aw 'd oather ha Jainie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind;

What would to do iv it wur thee? “Aw 'd tak him just while he 'se inclined,

An'a farrant!y bargain be 'll be ;
For Jamie 's as greadly a lail

As ever stept eawt into th' san.
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ;

An' mak th' best o'th' job when it 's done!"

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon :

Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ; Aw connut for shame be too soon,

An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'in o' ov a tremble to th' heel :

Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? “Be off, lass, – thae looks very weel;

He wants noan o'th' bonnet, thae foo!"

EDWIN WAUGH.

RORY O’MORE;

OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK.

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ;
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to

tease.

ROBERT BURNS,

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

“Now, Rory, be aisy!” sweet Kathleen would

cri, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, “With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what

I'nı about ; Faith! you've tazed till I've put on my cloak

inside out." “Och ! jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way Ye've thrated my heart for this many a day ; And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be

sure ? For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory

O'More.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,

'T was on a market day: A low-backed car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass,

And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare

With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

“Indeed, then," says Kathleen, “ don't think of

the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be

bound" “Faith !” says Rory, “I'd rather love you than

the ground." “Now, Rory, I 'll cry if you don't let me go ; Sure I dream every night that I'm hating yon

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes

Of death in warlike cars ;
While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market town,

As right and left they fly ;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor's art

Caunot cure the heart
That is liit from that low-backed car.

so!”

"Och !! sys Rory, “that same I'm delighted

to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, kape (hraming that same till ye die, And bright morning will give dirty night the

black lie! And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be

sure ?

Since 't is all for good luck,” says bold Rory

O'More.

Sweet Peggy rounil her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters

By far outnumber these ;
While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooining god of Love ! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin',
As she sits in her low-back car.

“ Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you 've tazed me

enough ; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes

and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health,

quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.” Then Rory, the rogne, stole his arm round her

neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming

with light, And he kissed her sweet lips, -- don't you think

he was right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — you 'll hug me no

more, That's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me

before.” “Then here goes another," says he, “to make

sure ! For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory

O'More.

0, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and goli galore,

Aud a lady for my bride ;
For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me

With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar;

0, my heart would beat high

At her glance and her sigh, – Though it beat in a low-backed car!

SAMUEL LOVER,

SAMUEL LOVER.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

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Of all the girls that are so smart

There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally ;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her inother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em;
But sure such folks could ne'er beget

So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,

And she 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 his bellyful,

I'll bear it all for Sally;
For she 'is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt

The Saturday and Monday ;
For then I'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,

And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named :
I leave the church in sermon-time,

And slink away to Sally ;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,

0, then I shall have money! I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

And give it to my honey ;
I would it were ten thousand pound !

I'd give it all to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she 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;

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like

a china cup,

Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and

so fine, It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered

in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceedel

all before ; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from

the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she

was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my

heart away.

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