KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain.

"O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her,-and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single,-that's plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Edward Lysaght.

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

WHY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?

Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes;

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;

You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won't propose.

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons,

I'm ever on the watch;

Why Don't the Men Propose?

I've hopes when some distingué beau
A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance and smile and flirt,
Alas! he won't propose.

I've tried to win by languishing,

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books and talked of them
As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;

And so I lisped out nought beyond
Plain "yesses
or plain "noes,"

99

And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout
I heard Sir Henry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I propose again—
I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,
I blushed like any rose;
But oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh, what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one;

At balls I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why won't the men propose?

131

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

A PIN

Он, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the

good,

But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion

would.

The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet,

Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,

But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin,

And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that

can't be said

When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating painIf anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.

A pin is such a tiny thing,-of that there is no doubt,Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing-when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarking, "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride,
And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added,

"It

Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."

Then she said, "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend,

You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend."

The Whistler

133

And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver— That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way

She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day, And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet)

With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust

Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather

rust

Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin

To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

THE WHISTLER

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood

While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine!" "And what would you do with it?-tell me," she said,

While an arch smile play'd over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid. Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without any magic," the fair maiden cried;
"A favour so slight one's good-nature secures; "
And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check

Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his

neck.

"Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine
And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee

"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be

To sit there and whistle for what you might take."
Unknown.

THE CLOUD

AN IDYLL OF THE WESTERN FRONT

I

SCENE: A wayside shrine in France.
PERSONS: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.

CELESTE (gazing at the solitary white Cloud):
I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud,
Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!
CLOUD: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will.
Long have I watched you, sitting there so still
Before that little shrine beside the way,

And wondered where your thoughts might be astray;
Your knitting lying idle on your knees,
And worse than idle-like Penelope's,
Working its own undoing!

CELESTE (picks up her knitting): Who was she?
Saints! What a knot!-Who was Penelope ?

What happened to her knitting? Tell me, Cloud! CLOUD: She was a Queen; she wove her husband's shroud. CELESTE (drops the knitting).

His shroud!

CLOUD:

There, there! 'Twas only an excuse

To put her lovers off, a wifely ruse,

Bidding them bide till it was finished, she
Each night the web unravelled secretly.

CELESTE: He came home safe?