Move my chair on the floor, boys,

Let me turn my head:
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred!
Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!
Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head.
Take her away from me, boys,

As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,

When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys-
The Lord be hallowed!
Oustide and in

The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,

The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,

And the eyes of a dead man's head. There's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fed, And the summer's empty and cold; Over valley and wold

Wherever I turn my head There's a mildew and a mould, The sun's going out overhead,

And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys,

You're all born and bred, "Tis fifty years and more, boys, Since wife and I were wed,

And she's gone before, boys, And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see 't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,

For he'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,

Bring out the beer and bread, Make haste and sup, boys,

533

For my eyes are heavy as lead;
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread,

I don't care to sup, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,

I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys,

The prayers are all said, The fire 's raked out, boys, And Tommy's dead?

The stairs are too steep, boys,

You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys,

Your mother's long in bed, "Tis time to go to sleep, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys,

You may shake my hand instead.

All things go amiss, boys,

You may lay me where she is, boys, And I'll rest my old head:

"Tis a poor world, this, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill—
Nor do I for all this, nor will;
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, oh my fears!
Heaven's King

It cannot die so.

Keeps register of every thing;

And nothing may we use in vain;
Even beasts must be with justice slain —
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean - their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain;
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio! when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me; nay, and I know
What he said then - I'm sure I do :
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!"
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled –
This waxed tame, while he grew wild;
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth, I set myself to play
My solitary time away,

With this; and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game. It seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? Oh I cannot be
Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it, too, might have done so
As Sylvio did - his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
"Twas on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty, skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race!
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own—

But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade

It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

Oh help! oh help! I see it faint,
And die as calmly as a saint!

See how it weeps! the tears do come

Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow, with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
Oh do not run too fast! for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.
First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too! But there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there,
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

ANDREW MARVELL.

She Wore a Wreath of Roses.

SHE wore a wreath of roses

The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling
Beneath her curls of jet.
Her footstep had the lightness,

Her voice the joyous tone,-
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment,

Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers
Upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange-blossoms,
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features

Was more thoughtful than before;

And standing by her side was one

Who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her, leaving that dear home She ne'er might view again.

I saw her but a moment,

Yet methinks I see her now, With the wreath of orange-blossoms Upon her snowy brow.

And once again I see that brow,
No bridal-wreath is there;

The widow's sombre cap conceals
Her once luxuriant hair.

She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.

I see her broken-hearted;

Yet methinks I see her now,

In the pride of youth and beauty, With a garland on her brow.

535

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands nearThe church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May

morn,

When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN.

The Bridge of Sighs.

"Drowned! Drowned!"- HAMLET.

ONE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,

Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly—
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hersOne of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the combHer fair auburn tressesWhilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?