LACEMAKERS' SONG.

SEE the bobbins swiftly plying,
Hear the bobbins gaily flying!
Faster, faster,
Staying not!
Under, over,
Tangling not!

Ever moving, twirling, twisting,
With a marvellous persisting.

Busy fingers daily toiling,

Clean and fresh and free from soiling!
Did some fairy

Teach your art?

Nay! 'twas Patience

Did her part!

White the thread upon the pillow,
As the foam upon the billow.

See the dainty fabric growing,
Graceful lines in patterns flowing.
Lace for baby,

Lace for bride,

Be it narrow,

Be it wide,

Good the work, and true endeavour :
Real lace will last for ever!

Cheerly work your work with singing,
Into it some sweet thoughts bringing.
Think what beauty

Thus you weave!
Think what pleasure
Thus you give !

On the wearers breathe a blessing,

All unknown to those possessing !

M. E. TOWNSEND.

THE MILKMAID'S SONG.

TURN, turn, for my cheeks they burn,

Turn by the dale, my Harry!

Fill pail, fill pail,

He has turned by the dale,

And there by the stile waits Harry.
Fill, fill,

Fill pail, fill,

For there by the stile waits Harry!

The world may go round, the world may stand still, But I can milk and marry,

Stood down there now by the water,
I know who'd carry me over the ford
As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord,
Though I don't live over the water.
Wheugh, wheugh! he's whistling thro',
He's whistling 'The farmer's daughter.'
Give down, give down,

My crumpled brown!

He shall not take the road to the town,
For I'll meet him beyond the water.

Give down, give down,

My crumpled brown !

And send me to my Harry.

The folk o' towns

May have silken gowns,

But I can milk and marry,

Fillpail,

I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled thro',

He has whistled through the water.

Fill, fill, with a will, a will,

For he's whistled thro' the water,

And he's whistling down

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, oh, if he goes a-soldiering,

The cows they may low, the bells they may ring, But I'll neither milk nor marry,

Fillpail,

Neither milk nor marry.

My brow beats on thy flank, Fillpail,
Give down, good wench, give down!
I know the primrose bank, Fillpail,
Between him and the town.

Give down, good wench, give down, Filpail,
And he shall not reach the town!

Strain, strain! he's whistling again,

He's nearer by half a mile.

More, more! Oh, never before
Were you such a weary while !
Fill, fill he's crossed the hill,
I can see him down by the stile.

He's passed the hay, he's coming this way,
He's coming to me, my Harry!

There's not so grand a dame in the land,

That she walks to-night with Harry!

Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon,

Oh, I can milk and marry,

Fillpail,

I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled thro',

My Harry! my lad! my lover!

Set the sun and fall the dew,
Heigho, merry world, what's to do
That you are smiling over and over?
Up on the hill and down in the dale,
And along the tree-tops over the vale
Shining over and over,

Low in the grass and high on the bough,
Shining over and over,

Oh, world, have you ever a lover?

You were so dull and cold just now,

Oh, world, have you ever a lover?
I could not see a leaf on the tree,

And now I could count them, one, two, three,
Count them over and over,

Leaf from leaf like lips apart,

Like lips apart for a lover.

And the hill-side beats with my beating heart,

And the apple-tree blushes all over,

And the May bough touched me and made me start,

And the wind breathes warm like a lover.

Pull, pull! and the pail is full,

And the milking's done and over.

Who would not sit here under the tree?
What a fair, fair thing's a green field to see!
Brim, brim to the rim, ah me!

I have set my pail on the daisies!

It seems so light

can the sun be set?

The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet,

I could cry to have hurt the daisies!

Harry is near, Harry is near,

My heart's as sick as if he were here,

My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet,

He hasn't uttered a word as yet,

But the air's astir with his praises,

My Harry!

The air's astir with your praises.

He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone,

He's among the kingcups—he picks me one,

I love the grass that I tread upon

When I go to my Harry!

He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe,

There's never a faster foot I know,

But still he seems to tarry.

Oh, Harry! oh, Harry! my love, my pride,

My heart is leaping, my arms are wide!

Roll up, roll up, you dull hill-side,

Roll up, and bring my Harry!

They may talk of glory over the sea,

But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me,

My love, my lad, my Harry!

Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow,

What cares Dolly whether or no,
While I can milk and marry?

Right or wrong, and wrong or right,
Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight,
But I'll bring my pail home every night
To love, and home, and Harry!

We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake,

There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the bake, The world may sleep, the world may wake,

But I shall milk and marry,

And marry,

I shall milk and marry..

SYDNEY Dobell.

LAUNDRESSES' SONG.

Go plunge it deep in the steaming tide
The linen soiled and dark,

And lave it wringing from side to side,
To cleanse out every mark:

To make it again as white as snow,
The linen fair and fine-

Then spread it out where the breezes blow,
And the merry sunbeams shine.

So day by day and week by week
We do our daily toil,

And ever and aye we only seek

To cleanse what others soil

Is it a mean and lowly task,

Hard work and little pay?

It may be so;--but we only ask
To do it from day to day.

From day to day until Sunday comes,

With the holy service blest,

And we sally forth from our cottage-homes

Alike to pray and rest,

And to hear about our souls made white

By Love that cannot die,

Till we stand in the 'linen garments' bright,
That the saints shall wear on high.

A. M. BROWNE.