EDWIN TO ANGELINA.
In thinking of
Requited love
I've come to the conclusion,
That if we are
To "ask papar "
It may create confusion.
You see, I guess
He won't say "yes,"
Indeed it's more than guessing;
It's very plain
We won't obtain
His patriarchal blessing.
If he went in
For rank or tin
My claims he would consider,
And you would be
My property,
As I'm the highest bidder.
But this is not
Precisely what
He seems to think about it;
He won't bestow
His sanction, so
We'll have to do without it.
That such as he Should figure in a love-tale, The reason is My tastes and his Do not exactly dove-tail. Make up your mind— I'm not inclined
To meet him for the future, I'd rather slope
Beyond the scope
Of his paternal blucher.
Dublin Doggerels. (W. McGee, Dublin.)
LET it be soon! Life was not made to long
For distant hours of dini futurity:
Thy presence soothes me like some far-off song.
Oh! where my heart has rested let it lie!
Hope is the morning : love the afternoon.
Let it be soon!
Let it be soon! The treasured daylight dies
And changes sadly to the chill of night,
But Summer reigns for ever in thine eyes.
And at thy touch Grief stealeth out of sight.
After sad years of longing, Love must swoon.
Let it be soon!
Let it be soon! Love cannot live like this,
Lost in a maze of wild expectancy :
Life can endure if solaced by a kiss,
But Faith, if unrewarded, it must die.
Thou art cold Winter: I am now in June.
Let it be soon!
CLEMENT SCOTT.
Lays of a Londoner. (D. Bogue.)
GIN I had a wee house and a canty wee fire,
A bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire,
A bonnie wee yardie beside a wee burn,
Farewell to the bodies that yammer and mourn.
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what will betide me yet,
Some bonnie wee body may be my lot,
And I'll aye be canty wi' thinkin' o't.
When I gang a-field and come hame at e'en,
I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat and fu' clean;
And a bonnie wee bairnie upon her knee,
That will cry papa or daddy to me.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.
I carena a button for sackfu's o' cash,
Let wizened auld bachelors think o' sic trash;
Gie me my wee wifie upon my knee,
A kiss o' her mou' is worth thousands to me.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.
And if there should happen ever to be
A difference atween my wifie an' me,
In hearty good humour, although she be teased, I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleased. Sae bide ye yet, &c.
Fugitive Poetry. (Warne.)
GATHER the rose-buds, while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.
A LITTLE LECTURE.
(From "The Parish Register.")
DISPOSED to wed, e'en while you hasten, stay;
There's great advantage in a small delay :--
Thus Ovid sang, and much the wise approve
This prudent maxim of the priest of Love;
If poor, delay for future want prepares,
And eases humble life of half its cares;
If rich, delay shall brace the thoughtful mind
T'endure the ills that e'en the happiest find:
Delay shall knowledge yield on either part,
And show the value of the vanquish'd heart ;
The humours, passions, merits, failings prove,
And gently raise the veil that's worn by Love;
Love, that impatient guide !—too proud to think
Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat, and drink,
Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize,
And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees :-
Yet not too long in cold debate remain;
Till age refrain not-but if old, refrain.
DON'T YOU THINK SO?
DON'T you, don't you think, my dear,
If I tied a piece of string
Round this darling finger here,
Just to counterfeit a ring,
That would make the measure right
If I bought the ring to-night?
If we got this very hour
Cloudy tulle, a yard or less,
And a bit of orange-flower,
And a flowy, snowy dress, Wouldn't you be sweet to see, Walking down the aisle with me ?
FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
PENELOPE.
So you've kem 'yer agen,
And one answer won't do?
Well, of all the derned men
That I've struck, it is you.
O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.
Kem in, ef you will.
Thar,-quit! Take a cheer.
Not that; you can't fill
Them theer cushings this year,
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make such men about 'yer.
THERE, in that bower where first she owned her love,
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched
The silk upon the frame, and worked her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised that, when spring returned,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!
S. T. COLERidge.
Do with me as you will, for I am yours;
Forgive me all my faults; deceive me not.
I think I never won a heart till now,
And am afraid to touch it. I must weep,
Because there is no virtue in myself
Two lovers stood 'neath a star-lighted sky,
Half-fearfully touching enchanted ground:
One lover was Harry, and one was I,
And the world went merrily round and round.
Souls rushing together from distant parts,
Vows uttered that cannot be ever undone ;
A minute ago two lives and two hearts,
Through time and eternity now but one.
O foolish butterflies! chattering birds!
Instinct in vain with humanity strives;
You can't understand the wonderful words
Or magical kisses that changed two lives!
AUTHOR OF "MRS. JERNINGHAM'S JOURNAL
Harry. (Macmillan.)
COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I' MINE.
COME, Mary, link thi arm i' mine,
An' lilt away wi' me;
An' dry that tremblin' drop o' brine,
Fro th' corner o' thi e'e;
There's a little cot beside yon spring,
An' iv thae'll share't wi' me,
Aw'll buy tho th' prattist gowden ring
That ever theaw did see!
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.
My feyther's gan mo forty peawnd,
I' silver an' i' gowd;
An' a bonny bit o' garden greawnd,
O' th' mornin' side o' th' fowd
An' a honsome Bible, clen an' new,
To read for days to come ;-
There's lyevs for writin' names in, too,
Like th' owd un at's awhoam. Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi' arm i' mine.
Eawr Jenny's bin a-buyin' in,
An' every day hoo brings
Knives an' forks, an' pots; or irons
For smoothin' caps an' things;
My gronny's sent a kist o' drawers,
Sunday clooas to keep;
An' little Fanny's bought a glass,
Where thee an' me can peep.
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.
Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch ;
Eawr Jem a load o' coals;
Eawr Charlie's bought some pickters, an'
He's hanged 'em upo th' woles;
Owd Posy's white-weshed th' cottage through ;
Eawr Matty's made it sweet;
An' Jack's gan me his Jarman flute,
To play by th' fire at neet!
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi' arm i' mine.
There's cups an' saucers; porritch-pons,
An' tables, greyt an' smo';
There's brushes, mugs, an' ladin'-cans;
An eight days clock an' o';
There's a cheer for thee, an' one for me,
An' one i' every nook;
Thi mother's has a cushion on't
It's the nicest cheer i' th' rook.
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.
My mother's gan me th' four-post bed,
Wi' curtains to 't an' o';
An' pillows, sheets, an' bowsters, too,
As white as driven snow;
It isn't stuffed wi' fither-deawn,
But th' flocks are clen an' new;
Hoo says there's honest folk i' th' teawn,
That's made a warse un do.
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.
Aw peeped into my cot last neet;
It made me hutchin' fain;
A bonny fire were winkin' breet
I' every window-pane ;
Aw marlocked upo th' white hearth-stone,
An' drummed o' th' kettle lid;
An' sung, "My nest is snug an' sweet;
Aw'll go and fotch my brid!"
Chorus.-Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.
EDWIN WAUGH.
Poems and Lancashire Songs. (G. Bell.)
(From "Sunday at Hampstead.")
DAY after day of this azure May
The blood of the Spring has swelled in my veins ; Night after night of broad moonlight
A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.
A seething might, a fierce delight,
The blood of the Spring is the wine of the world; My veins run fire and thrill desire,
Every leaf of my heart's red rose unfurled.
A sad sweet calm, a tearful balm,
The light of the moon is the trance of the world;
My brain is fraught with yearning thought,
And the rose is pale and its leaves are furled.
Oh speed the day, thou dear, dear May,
And hasten the night I charge thee, O June,
When the trance divine shall burn with the wine
And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon!
JAMES THOMSON.
City of Dreadful Night. (Reeves and Turner.)
THE COURTIN'.
ZEKLE crep' up, quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole Queen's arm that gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiny on the dresser. The very room, coz she wus in,
Looked warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.
She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu,
Araspin' on the scraper,-
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the seekle;
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk,
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work
Ez ef a wager spurred her.
"You want to see my Pa, I spose?"
"Wal, no ;-I come designin'-" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es, Agin to-morrow's i'nin'."
He stood a spell on one foot, fust,
Then stood a spell on tother,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye, nuther.
Sez he, "I'd better call agin;"
Sez she, "Think likely, Mister;" The last word pricked him like a pin, An'-wal, he up and kist her!
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kind o' smily round the lips,
An' teary round the lashes.
Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they wuz cried
In meetin', come nex Sunday.
Poetical Works. (Ward, Lock, and Co.)
THE MATTER ENDED THERE.
WHEN the lavish Spring had squandered
All her wealth of bloom and shade,
Down a leafy lane I wandered,
And I met a little maid.
Oh, she set my bosom burning
With her modest, winsome air!
But she left me at the turning-
And the matter ended there.
But I grew a frequent comer
In that little lonely lane,
And, ere Spring joined hands with Summer,
I had met the maid again.
But, O tranquil sky above me,
You beheld a life's despair,
For she said she could not love me-
And the matter ended there.
There were dainty frost-flowers freighting
Every blade of churchyard grass,
And the village-girls were waiting
For a bridal train to pass.
And they had not long to linger
Ere there came a blushing pair;
And the ring was on her finger-
And the matter ended there.
FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
Gaslight and Stars. (Marcus Ward.)
[BUT] we must not hurry or fret,
Or think of ourselves alone;
Love waits for love, though the sun be set, And the stars come out, and the dews are wet, And the night winds moan.
WALTER C. SMITH. Raban. (J. Maclehose, Glasgow.)
MY OWN GIRL.
FIFTEEN shillings-no more, sir-
The wages I weekly touch.
For labour steady and sore, sir,
It isn't a deal too much ;
Your money has wings in the city,
And vanishes left and right;
But I hand a crown to Kitty
As sure as Saturday night.
Bless her, my own, my wee, She's better than gold to me! She lives in a reeking court, sir,
With roguery, drink, and woe;
But Kitty has never a thought, sir,
That isn't as white as snow-
She hasn't a thought or feeling
An angel would blush to meet ;
I love to think of her kneeling
And praying for me so sweet.
Bless her, my own, my wee,
She's better than gold to me!
I must be honest and simple,
I must be manly and true,
Or how could I pinch her dimple,
Or gaze in her frank eyes' blue?
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