That knock men down in the market-town,
As right and left they fly;
While she sits in her low-back'd car,
Than battle more dangerous far,—
For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart

That is hit from that low-back'd car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,
Of the blooming god of love;
While she sits in her low-back'd car,
The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin',

As she sits in her low-back'd car.

Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-back'd car To be married by Father Maher;

Oh, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-back'd car.

JESSY.

SAMUEL LOVER.

HERE'S a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,

And soft as their parting tear, Jessy!

Altho' thou maun never be mine,
Altho' even hope is denied,
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing
Than aught in the world beside, Jessy.

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms,
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lock'd in thine arms, Jessy.

I guess by the dear angel smile,

I guess by thy love-rolling ee; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessy?

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond
lovers meet,

And soft as their parting tear, Jessy.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE. THE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine:

My ribbins'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine,

For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t' other day

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begg'd that aw'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will! When he took my two honds into his,

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between!

An' aw durstn't look up in his face,

Becose on him seein' my e'en. My cheek went as red as a rose;

There's never a mortal con tell
Heaw happy aw felt,-for, thae knows,
One couldn't ha' ax'd him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung:
To let it eawt wouldn't be reet,
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung,
So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet.
But, Mally, thae knows very weel,

Though it isn't a thing one should own, Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd thae my mind;
What would to do iv it wur thee?
"Aw'd tak him just while he'se inclined,
An' a farrantly bargain he'll be;
For Jamie's as greadly a lad

As ever stept eawt into th' sun.
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed;

An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait;

Aw connut for shame be too soon,

An' aw wouldn't for th' wuld be too

late.

Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel;

Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

EDWIN WAUGH.

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.

COME, all ye jolly shepherds,

That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken; What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?

'Tis to woo a bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame,

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbor of the great-
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonny bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame.

There the blackbird bigs his nest,
For the mate he lo’es to see,
And on the topmost bough
Oh, a happy bird is he!
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame.

When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her ee,
Then the laverock, frae the blue lift,
Drops down and thinks nae shame

To woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

See yonder pawkie shepherd,

That lingers on the hill,

She stoop'd where the cool spring bubbled up,

And fill'd for him her small tin cup,

And blush'd as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown.

"Thanks!" said the judge; a sweeter draught

From a fairer hand was never quaff'd."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd whether

The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listen'd, while a pleased surprise
Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd: “Ah me!
That I the judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat,
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,

And all should bless me who left our door."

The judge look'd back as he climb'd the hill,

And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,

And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he humm'd in court an old love-
tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watch'd a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Look'd out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He long'd for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnish'd rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret
pain,

66 Ah, that I were free again!—

"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor, And many children play'd round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein.

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretch'd away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd,
The tallow candle an astral burn'd,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for judge,

For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have
been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE POWER OF LOVE. HEAR ye, ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise:

Fair Calisto was a nun: Leda, sailing on a stream,

To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan; Danaë in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear ye, ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy;

The chaste moon he makes to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires,

Doting at the altar dies;

Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

THE BROOKSIDE.

I WANDER'D by the brookside,
I wander'd by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still :
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm tree,
I watch'd the long, long shade,
And as it grew still longer

I did not feel afraid;
For I listen'd for a footfall,

I listen'd for a word:
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not-no, he came not,—
The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;
The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd;
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,

I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer, nearer-

We did not speak one word; But the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON).

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads of May,
If she be not so to me

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joined to a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest,
Which may gain her name of Best;

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and bid her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
GEORGE WITHER.

SONNET.

SINCE there's no help, come, let us kiss

and part,

Nay, I have done, you get no more of

me,

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,

That thus so clearly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all'our vows, And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows,

That we one jot of former love retain. Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,