OWEENIE.

OWEENIE is fair,

With auburn hair,
And her eyes do quite bewilder;

Of a violet hue,

A deep, dark blue, Like amethysts set in silver.

Above those eyes

Twin arches rise,
Like bridge athwart a river;

And they bend to meet

Those eyes so sweet, Clad each with an auburn quiver.

Her brow is wide,

And the rippling tide Of her lovely wave-like hair

Doth rise and swell

With a witching spell ; As it nestles softly there.

Her nose aquiline,

Is curved sublime
Mid cheeks of blush-rose red ;

While shell-like ears

Hold diamond tears That sparkle by her stag-like head. Her lips like cherries

Are ripe as berries Which come in the autumn-time.

A treat to kiss,

That I seldom miss Since I have called her mine.

Then her teeth and chin,

Can always win Some praise from the dullest lout;

One pure as pearl,

The other a curl,
Which laughs in a dimple out.

a

Such is the Face,

That I love to trace,
In dreams by night and day;
Which won my

heart
To play its part,
For to make her Mine alway.

THE VILLAGE LANE.

COME, list to my Song

As we jog along,
Of the dear old Village Lane ;

'Tis as fair to view

As the sparkling dew,
When the Sun greets all the Plain.

Yon Stile by the Gate

Is the place to wait,
When the Night is clear and still ;

And the Moonbeams play

With a silv'ry ray, Through the Copse by the grassy Hill. .

For the one I love,

She is wont to rove When the Moon smiles o'er the Mead ;

And her eyes are bright

As the Stars at Night; While her Soul in them

you

read.

Full oft by the Stile

We linger awhile ;
Ere we bid the last Good-night ;

Then our lips do meet

In a parting sweet,
That thrills us through with delight.

Aye, strong in her power

At that witching hour;
And I think of nought beside,

As she's drawn to me

'Neath the old elm tree;
My darling, little sweetheart, bride!

Yon Cot by the Road

Shall be our Abode;
There will we dwell together ;

There her fond embrace

And her kiss so chaste,
Shall bind our Hearts for Ever.

Composed at Brawby, May 6, 1886, after reading some of the Little Gems in a book entitled 'Father Prout's Reliques.' It is the First Song I had ever tried my hand at, and I consider it a fair specimen.

THE BIRDS OF BRAWBY.

'Tis early Morn;
The East is robed in garments gray ;

The Village Street
Lies still ; 'tis scarcely Dawn of Day;

The Morning air
With silent march invades my Room,

Its incense breath,
Thus fills it with the sweet perfume

Of Mignonette.

Mine eyes unclose
From slumbers, dreamless, sweet, profound ;

And dreamily
With wandering glance I look around, -

The Room is wrapped
In light and shade, luminous and obscure,

Which quaintly makes The household gods and furniture

Assume all shapes.

Thus, half Asleep
And half Awake, I dozing lie;

And silently
The silver streaks the Morning Sky

With shafts of light;
When suddenly I hear around,

Enchanting rare,
A Music Wave of Sweetest Sound

Which fills the Air

With Melody;
And rapturous, falls in gushing rills

Like Mountain Streams
Descending from their native Hills

In concert sweet ; Melodious as a chiming bell,

Whose grand, deep Song The echoes sweet by ford and fell

In notes prolong.