IN a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Caty-did: From the lofty locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew, In her suit of green arrayed Hear her singing in the shadeCaty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head On your sheet of shadows laid, All the day you nothing said: Half the night your cheery tongue Revelled out its little song. Nothing else but Caty-did.

From your lodging on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief? Did you only mean to say,

But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not: Caty did not think of cold, Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter with his wrinkles old; Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did.

Stay serenely on your nest; Caty now will do her best, All she can, to make you blest; But you want no human aid, Nature, when she formed you, said, "Independent you are made, My dear little Caty-did: Soon yourself must disappear With the verdure of the year," And to go, we know not where, With your song of Caty-did.

TO A HONEY BEE

THOU, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream,

Welcome! I hail you to my glass:
All welcome here you find;
Here let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here be all caro resigned.

This fluid never fails to please,
And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell,
But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell:

On lighter wings we bid you fly,-
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be
said

To perish in a sea of red.

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear,

And your grave will be this glass of wine,

Your epitapha tear;

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR

'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,

And the whistling wind from the west

With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale;

On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Hend of Kinsale.

pine spars;

"I know your meaning," Joan replied,
But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied;
I will go on, and let you know
What work poor women have to do:
First, in the morning, though we feel
As sick as drunkards when they reel,
Yes, feel such pains in back and head
As would confine you men to bed,
We ply the brush, we wield the broom,
We air the beds, and right the room;

The cows must next be milked — and then
We get the breakfast for the men.
Ere this is done, with whimpering cries,
And bristly hair, the children rise;

These must be dressed, and dosed with rue,

And fed and all because of you:
We next"-Here Darby scratched his
head,

And stole off grumbling to his bed;
And only said, as on she run,

"Zounds! woman's clack is never done."

Old Darby rose and seized the broom
And whirled the dirt about the room:
Which having done, he scarce knew how,
He hied to milk the brindled cow.
The brindled cow whisked round her tail
In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.
The clown, perplexed with grief and
pain,

Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again:
When turning round, in sad amaze,
He saw his cottage in a blaze:
For as he chanced to brush the room,
In careless haste, he fired the broom.
The fire at last subdued, he swore
The broom and he would meet no more.
Pressed by misfortune, and perplext,
Darby prepared for breakfast next;
But what to get he scarcely knew—
The bread was spent, the butter too.
His hands bedaubed with paste and flour,
Old Darby labored full an hour:
But, luckless wight! thou couldst not
make

The bread take form of loaf or cake.
As every door wide open stood,
In pushed the sow in quest of food;
And, stumbling onwards, with her snout
O'erset the churn-the cream ran out.
As Darby turned the sow to beat,
The slippery cream betrayed his feet;
He caught the bread trough in his fall,
And down came Darby, trough, and all.
The children, wakened by the clatter,
Start up, and cry, "Oh what's the mat
ter?"

Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed,
And hapless Darby bawled aloud,
"Return, my Joan, as heretofore,
I'll play the housewife's part no more:
Since now, by sad experience taught,
Compared to thine my work is naught;
Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take,
Content, the plough, the seythe, the rake,
And never more transgress the line

Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.

Then Joan, return, as heretofore,
I'll vex thy honest soul no more;
Let's each our proper task attend ·
Forgive the past, and strive to mend."