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But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count | Well, yes,

on both your hands,

if you saw us out driving Each day in the park, four-in-hand ;

And for myself there's not a thumb or little If you saw poor dear mamma contriving finger stands.

O, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright,

To look supernaturally grand,
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but In the bustle and glitter befitting

right.

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That waits on the stairs - for me yet.
They say he'll be rich,
when he grows up,
And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
"And how do I like my position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And is n't it nice to have riches

And diamonds and silks and all that?"

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The "
finest soirée of the year,"
In the mists of a gaze de chambéry
And the hum of the smallest of talk, -
Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork ;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre

And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis ;
And how I once went down the middle

With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride, that to me was the rarest;
Of the something you said at the gate:
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,

Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

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But know, if you have n't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

Then take my advice, darling widow machree, Och hone! widow machree!

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take And you've struck it, on Poverty Flat.

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me,

Och hone! widow machree! You'd have me to desire

Then to stir up the fire;

And sure hope is no liar

In whispering to me That the ghosts would depart When you'd me near your heart,

Och hone! widow machree!

SAMUEL LOVER,

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.

THE laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great.
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

When everything smiles, should a beauty look Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

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And how do you know, with the comforts I've And what was his errand he soon let her know,

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Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green;

Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at Cock pen.

CAROLINA OLIPHANT, BARONESS NAIRNE.

THE FAITHFUL LOVERS.

I'D been away from her three years, about that,

And I returned to find my Mary true ;

"I've yet another ring from him; d'ye see The plain gold circlet that is shining here?" I took her hand: "O Mary! can it be That you"Quoth she, "that I am Mrs. Vere! I don't call that unfaithfulness- - do you?" "No," I replied, "for I am married too.'

ANONYMOUS.

COOKING AND COURTING.

FROM TOM TO NED.

DEAR Ned, no doubt you 'll be surprised When you receive and read this letter. I've railed against the marriage state; But then, you see, I knew no better.

And though I'd question her, I did not doubt I've met a lovely girl out here ;

that

It was unnecessary so to do.

'T was by the chimney-corner we were sitting: "Mary," said I, "have you been always true?" "Frankly," says she, just pausing in her knitting,

"I don't think I 've unfaithful been to you: But for the three years past I'll tell you what I've done; then say if I 've been true or not.

"When first you left my grief was uncontrollable;
Alone I mourned my miserable lot;
And all who saw me thought me inconsolable,
Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott.
To flirt with him amused me while 't was new:
I don't count that unfaithfulness - do you?

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I went to ask her out to ride
Last Wednesday- it was perfect weather.
She said she could n't possibly :
The servants had gone off together
(Hibernians always rush away,

At cousins' funerals to be looking);
Pies must be made, and she must stay,

She said, to do that branch of cooking. "O, let me help you," then I cried : "I'll be a cooker too how jolly!" She laughed, and answered, with a smile, "All right! but you 'll repent your folly; For I shall be a tyrant, sir,

And good hard work you 'll have to grapple; So sit down there, and don't you stir,

But take this knife, and pare that apple."
She rolled her sleeve above her arm,

That lovely arm, so plump and rounded;
Outside, the morning sun shone bright;
Inside, the dough she deftly pounded.
Her little fingers sprinkled flour,
And rolled the pie-crust up in masses:
I passed the most delightful hour
Mid butter, sugar, and molasses.

With deep reflection her sweet eyes
Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle;
She sliced the apples, filled her pies,
And then the upper crust did settle.

Would call just that unfaithfulness? Would Her rippling waves of golden hair you?

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In one great coil were tightly twisted; But locks would break it, here and there, And curl about where'er they listed. And then her sleeve came down, and I Fastened it up - her hands were doughy;

O, it did take the longest time!

Her arm, Ned was so round and snowy.

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Ladamia.

WORDSWORTH.

LOVE'S BLINDNESS.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Midsummer Night's Dream, Acti. Sc. 1.

SHAKESPEARE.

None ever loved but at first sight they loved.
Blind Beggar of Alexandria.

GEO. CHAPMAN.

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?

Hero and Leander.

C. MARLOWE.

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit.

told,

Merchant of Venice, Act ii. Sc. 6.

SHAKESPEARE.

When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Charins strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!

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Rape of the Lock, Cant. v.

РОРЕ.

Our souls sit close and silently within
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such
That spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
Mariage a la Mode, Act ii. Sc. 1.

DRYDEY

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