Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod I leaned upon the gate to see. The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate, I saw my picture in her eyes, Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes! I said, "A tale was made of old "For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado? Reflected when the maid was gone. But I can milk and marry, Fill pail, I can milk and marry. Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through He has whistled through the water. Fill, fill, with a will, a will, For he's whistled through the water, The way to the town, And it's not "The Farmer's Daughter!" Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer, The sun sets over the water, Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer, I'm too late for my Harry! And, O, if he goes a-soldiering, Pull, pull and the pail is full, And milking's done and over. Who would not sit here under the tree? What a fair fair thing's a green field to see! The cows they may low, the bells they may I have set my pail on the daisies! ring, But I'll neither milk nor marry, Fill pail, Neither milk nor marry. My brow beats on thy flank, Fill pail, Give down, good wench, give down, Fill pail, Strain, strain! he's whistling again, He's nearer by half a mile. More, more! O, never before Were you such a weary while! Fill, fill he's crossed the hill, He's passed the hay, he's coming this way, Fill pail, I can milk and marry. Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through, Low in the grass and high on the bough, O world, have you ever a lover? It seems so light, can the sun be set? I could cry to have hurt the daisies! Harry is near, Harry is near, My heart's as sick as if he were here, The air's astir with your praises. He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe, There's never a faster foot I know, But still he seems to tarry. O Harry! O Harry! my love, my pride, But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me, Come spring, come winter, come sun, come AUF WIEDERSEHEN! * SUMMER. THE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, "Auf wiedersehen!" Lingered reluctant, and again She said, "Auf wiedersehen!" The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air "T is thirteen years: once more I press I hear the rustle of her dress, Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these - they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, "Auf wiedersehen!" SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. I GREW assured, before I asked, That she'd be mine without reserve, And in her unclaimed graces basked At leisure, till the time should serve, With just enough of dread to thrill The hope, and make it trebly dear: Till once, through lanes returning late, We paused with one presentient mind; Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free, Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word; The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touched me where I stood; The warmth of her confided arm; * Till we meet again! "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they 've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell." 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, — "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped He'll think when I was sporting so beside this | Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, not tell. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O, luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell. "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe, That I have thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. arrows go; But thou giv'st little heed, for I speak to one who knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. "It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! thou know'st I feel That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel. 'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain; But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. I would proclaim thee as thou art- but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes." Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran: The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause: "O lady, dry those star-like eyes, their dimness does me wrong; If my heart be made of flint, at least 't will keep thy image long; Thou hast uttered cruel words, but I grieve the less for those, Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere he goes." WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. SOMEBODY. SOMEBODY's courting somebody, Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody, Under this clear moonlight. Near the bright river's flow, She sits with somebody. Pacing the ocean's shore, Sound sweet to somebody. THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting, "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." ""T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat, longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; Slower and slower- and slower the wheel swings; Lower and lower- and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. |