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But you ’ve as many sweethearts, as you 'd count | Well, yes, if you saw us ont driving on both your hands,
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.
To look supernaturally grand,
If O, yon 're the flower o' womankind in country
you saw papa's picture, as taken or in town;
By Brady, and tinted at that, The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And four at Poverty Flat. down. If some great lord should come this way, and see and yet, just this moment, when sitting your beauty bright,
In the glare of the grand chandelier, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but in the bastle and glitter befitting right.
The “finest soirée of the year,"
Somehow, Joe, I thought of “ The Ferry,”
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my dis- And tallow on head-dress and shawl; tress;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis ; wish it less.
And how I once went down the middle The proudest place would fit your face, and I With the man that shot Sandy McGee ;
am poor and low ;
On the hill, when the time came to go;
From under their bedclothes of snow ;
Of that ride, – that to me was the rarest; I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Of -- the something you said at the gate : Dressed just as I came from the dance,
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress In a robe even you would adınire,
To “the best-paying lead in the State.” It cost a cool thousand in France ; I'm bedinmonded out of all reason,
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny My hair is done up in a cue:
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money, In short, sir, “the belle of the season
That I should be thinking, right there, Is wasting an hour on you.
Of some one who breasted high water, A dozen engagements I've broken ;
And swam the North Fork, and all that, I left in the midst of a set ;
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! And then he adores me indeed.
(Mamma says my taste still is low,) Anil you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Instead of my triumphs reciting, Three thousand miles off, as you read.
I'm spooning on Joseph,– heigh-ho !
And I'm to be “finished" by travel, “And how do I like my position ?”
Whatever 's the meaning of that, “ And what do I think of New York ?”
O, why did papa strike pay gravel “And now, in my higher ambition,
In drifting on Poverty Flat? With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ?" "And is n't it nice to have riches
Good night, - here's the end of my paper ; And diamonds and silks and all that?"
Good night, if the longitude please, “And are n't it a change to the ditches
For maybe, while wasting my taper, And tunnels of Poverty Flat ?”
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you have n't got riches,
Then take my advice, darling widow machree, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
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
When you 'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machiree !
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, Widow machree, now the suminer is come, But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
Och hone! widow machree; When everything smiles, should a beauty look Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, glum?
At bis table-head he thought she'd look well.
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouthered, and guid as when
new ; And the mute little fish,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; Though they can't spake, they wish, He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, Och hone! widow machree!
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
Widow machree, and when winter comes in, He took the gray mare, and rade cannilie,
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
“ Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben: Och hone! widow machree!
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen.”
Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower
wine; Full of family glee ;
“And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?' While alone with your cup
She put aff her apron, and on ber silk gown, Like a hermit you sup,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. Och hone! widow machree !
And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low, And how do you know, with the comforts I've And what was his errand he soon let her know. towld,
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, Och hone! widow machree, –
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the could ?
Dumfoundered he was, hut nae sigh did he gi'e ;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie,
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
“She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.”
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ;
“O, for ane I'll get better, it 's waur I'll get ten; Crying “Och hone! widow machree !" I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.”
Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, “I've yet another ring from him; d'ye see They were gann arm and arm to the kirk on the The plain gold circlet that is shining here ?" green ;
I took her hand : “O Mary! can it be Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
Quoth she, “ that I am Mrs. Vere! But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at I don't call that unfaithfulness — do you ?” Cockpen.
“No," I replied, “ for I am married too." CAROLINA OLIPHANT, BARONESS NAIRNE.
FROM TOM TO NED.
COOKING AND COURTING.
Dear Ned, no doubt you 'll be surprised I 'd been away from her three years, — about When you receive and read this letter. that,
I've railed against the marriage state; And I returned to find my Mary true ;
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
Her manner is — well— very winning: It was unnecessary so to do.
We're soon to be — well, Ned, my dear,
I 'll tell you all, from the beginning. "T was by the chimney.corner we were sitting :
Mary," said I, “have you been always true?" | I went to ask her out to ride "Frankly,” says she, just pausing in her knit Last Wednesday - it was perfect weather. ting,
She said she could n't possibly : "I don't think I 've unfaithful been to you:
The servants had gone off together But for the three years. past I 'll tell you what
(Hibernians always rush away, I 've done ; they say if I 've been true or not.
At cousins' funerals to be looking);
Pies must be made, and she must stay,
Alone I mourned my miserable lot ;
“O, let me help you," then I cried : Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott.
“I'll be a cooker too — how jolly!” To flirt with him amused me while 't was new :
She laughed, and answered, with a smile, I don't count that unfaithfulness - do you?
“All right! but you 'll repent your folly;
For I shall be a tyrant, sir, " The next -oh! let me
see -- was Frankie And good hard work you 'll have to grapple ; Phipps ;
So sit down there, and don't you stir, I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide,
But take this knife, and pare that apple.” And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips, He gave me his first kiss — " And here she She rolled her sleeve above her arm,
That lovely arm, so plump and rounded ; sighed.
Outside, the morning sun shone bright; “We stayed six weeks at uncle's — how time
Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. flew!
Her little fingers sprinkled flour, I don't count that unfaithfulness - do you ?
And rolled the pie-crust up in masses : “Lord Cecil Fossmore --- only twenty-one
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 ;
And then the upper crust did settle.
In one great coil were tightly twisted ;
But locks wonld break it, here and there, “Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings!
And curl about where'er they listed.
When we were lost in Cliefden woods together. Fastened it up --- her hands were doughy;
Her arm, Ned was so round and snowy,
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
She blushed, and trembled, and looked shy ; Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray, Her arch lips looked so red that I
Did not the fairest of the fair
Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone, Are the most miserable devils!
May pray and whisper and we pot list, You 'd better go for some girl's hand ;
Or look away and never be missed, -
Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian 's dead! God rest her hier,
How I loved her twenty years syue!
Marian 's married ; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far ?
THE FIRE OF LOVE.
FROM THE "EXAMEN MISCELLANEUM," 1708.
The fire of love in youthful blood, That Star her Poet's love,
Like what is kindled in brushwood, So wildly warm, made human ;
But for a moment burns ; And leaving, for his sake, her heaven above,
Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; His Star stooped earthward, and became a It crackles, and to vapor turns, Woman.
And soon itself destroys. “ Thou who hast wooed and hast possest, My lover, answer: Which was best,
But when crept into aged veins The Star's beam or the Woman's breast ? ?"
It slowly burns, and then long remains, “I miss from heaven," the man replied,
And with a silent heat, A light that drew my spirit to it.”
Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; And to the man the woman sighed,
And though the flame be not so great, “I miss from earth a poet."
Yet is the heat as strong.
CHARLES SACKVILLE, LORD OF DORSET (Owen Meredith.)
FROM THE “LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL," CANTO 111.
THE AGE OF WISDOM.
That never has known the barber's shear,
Wait till you come to forty year.
Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,
AND said I that my limbs were old,
And that I might not sing of love ?
Wait till you come to forty year.
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ;
Once you have come to forty year.
So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love's very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen ; In hamlets, dances on the green.
The time I've lost.
The light that lies
In woman's eyes.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye.
Love's Labor Lost, Ad iv. Sc. 3.
With a smile that glowed Lady of Lvons.
E. BULWER-LYTTON. Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Paradise Lost, Book viji. Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow,
Hung over her enamored, and beheld As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Two Gentleinen of Verona, Ad ii. Sc. 7.
Shot forth peculiar graces. Thy fatal shafts unerring move,
Paradise Lost, Book v.
Roderick Random, Ch. xl.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, Don Juan, Cant. ii.
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Mightier far
Midsummer Night's Dream, Acl i. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE. Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star,
None ever loved but at first sight they loved.
Blind Beggar of Alexandria, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? breast.
Hero and Leander. Ladamia.
WORDSWORTH. There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has But love is blind, and lovers cannot see told,
The pretty follies that themselves commit.
Merchant of Venice, Adii, Sc. 6. 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 throngh all ills, and love on till they
Rape of the Lock, Cant. v. die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Our souls sit close and silently within Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; And their own web from their own entrails spin ; And O, if there be an Elysium on earth,
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such It is this, it is this.
That spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. Lalla Rookh ; Light of the Harem.
Mariage a la Mode, Act ii. Sc. I.