BARRY CORNWALL. Full, steadfast, stable, and demure, THE FLOWER'S NAME. HERE's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! - This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, — Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Speech half asleep, or song half awake? Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not, Mind the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Treasure my lady's lightest footfall: Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces, ROBERT BROWNING. ON A GIRDLE. THAT which her slender waist confined It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass! and yet there EDMUND WALLER. THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. ROBERT TANNAHILL. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. It is the miller's daughter, That trembles at her ear; And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest; And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. ALFRED TENNYSON, O, SAW YE THE LASS? O, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? When night overshadows her cot in the glen, RICHARD RYAN. THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. ON Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass, A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good-will; I'd crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own! O, may her choice be fixed on me! Mine's fixed on her alone. UPTON. By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace; An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rockén as the win' da blow, While she da sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night. An' dere at evemen I da goo, A-hoppén auver ghiates an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we da slyly catch A chat, an hour upon the stratch, An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch, In the stillness o' the night. An' zometimes she da goo to zome Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace, An' I da wish a vield a mile, WILLIAM BARNES MARY MORISON. O MARY, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Yestreen when to the trembling string I sat, but neither heard nor saw: O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Whase only faut is loving thee? A thought ungentle canna be ROBERT BURNS. IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT. DORSET DIALECT. Ov all the housen o' the pliace Ther's Qone wher I da like to call, O MISTRESS MINE. O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 't is not hereafter; SHAKESPEARE. THE LOW-BACKED CAR. WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy, A low-backed car she drove, and sat But when that hay was blooming grass, As she sat in the low-backed car, But just rubbed his owld poll, In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town, Cannot cure the heart, That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, Just like a turtle-dove, Of the blooming god of Love! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken As she sits in her low-backed car. O, I'd rather own that car, sir, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, For the lady would sit forninst me, With my arm around her waist, SAMUEL LOVER. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. Of all the girls that are so smart Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em ; And she lives in our alley. When she is by I leave my work, Of all the days that's in the week And that's the day that comes betwixt To walk abroad with Sally; And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, I leave the church in sermon-time, She is the darling of my heart, When Christmas comes about again, I'll give it to my honey; O, would it were ten thousand pound! I'd give it all to Sally; For she 's the darling of my heart, Be what it may the time of day, the place be | O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall; where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. so fine, It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be in a twine. seen, O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been! The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods all before; sae green: And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; And a' to be a poșie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, take away: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. wear: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. |