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"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, Bending beneath her load again, With handfuls of coals and rice,

A weary sight to see ; Or by dealing out fannel and sheeting

Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, A little below cost price ?

“They're dear fish to me!
"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, “Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,
And take to allotments and schools,

And when the storm blew o'er,
But you've run up a debt that will never My husband, and my three brave sons,
Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

Lay corpses on the shore. “In the season of shame and sadness,

“I've been a wife for thirty years, In the dark and dreary day,

A childless widow three ; When scrofula, gout, and madness

I maun buy them now to sell again, Are eating your race away ;

They're dear fish to me!” “ When to kennels and liveried varlets

The farmer's wife turned to the door, You have cast your daughters' bread,

What was 't upon her cheek? And, worn out with liquor and harlots,

What was there rising in her breast, Your heir at your feet lies dead ;

That then she scarce could speak ? “When your youngest, the mealy - mouthed

She thought upon her ain guidman,

Her lightsome laddies three; rector, Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,

The woman's words had pierced her heart, – You will find in your God the protector

• They're dear fish to me!" Of the freeman you fancied your slave.” “Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,

And pity's gathering tear; She looked at the tuft of clover,

“Come in, come in, my poor woman, And wept till her heart grew light;

Ye're kindly welcome here.
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.

“I kentna o' your aching heart,

Your weary lot to dree ; But the merry brown hares came leaping

I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words : Over the uplands still,

“They're dear fish to me!'”
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn

To pause ere they deny
The meed of honest toil, and think

How much their gold may buy, " THEY'RE DEAR FISH TO ME.”

How much of manhood's wasted strength,

What woman's misery, The farmer's wife sat at the door,

What breaking hearts might swell the cry : A pleasant sight to see ; And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns

“They 're dear fish to me!" That played around her knee.


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But who down the hillside than red deer runs

I'll sell my rock, I 'll sell my reel, fleeter?

I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her?

To buy for my love a sword of steel,
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae.

I'll dye my petticoats, — dye them red, One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of glad

And round the world I'll beg my bread, ness ;

Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness, -

Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.
He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay,
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

I wish I had my heart again,
For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,

And vainly think I'd not complain,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from
Ireland ;

Is go de tu mno murnin slàn.
He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,

But now my love has gone to France, But he vows he'll come back to the Flowerof Finae.

To try his fortune to advance, He fought at Cremona, — she hears of his story ;

If he c'er come back 't is but a chance, He fought at Cassano, - she's proud of his glory,

Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.
Yet sadly she sings “Shule Aroon ” all the day,
O, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."
Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh

THE MAID'S LAMENT. broken-hearted, Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone, parted ;

I feel I am alone. She sails with the “Wild Geese" to Flanders away, I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

Alas! I woull not check.


Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace

Our parting was fu' tender ;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder ;
But, O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary !
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kissed sae fondly !
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly ;
And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.



Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream !

When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream !

When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, O Yarrow stream !

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring,

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him ! Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should nevermore behold him !

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him : I now would give

My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found

'T was vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death !

I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns,

And this lone bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears ! “Merciful God !” such was his latest prayer,

“These may she never share !” Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,
And 0, pray, too, for me!



THREE students were travelling over the Rhine ; They stopped when they came to the landlady's

sign ; "Good landlady, have you good beer and wine ? And where is that dear little daughter of thine?" "My beer and wine are fresh and clear ; My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier !” And when to the chamber they made their way, There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised, And on her pale face he mournfully gazed : “Ah ! wert thou but living yet," he said, “I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid !" The second he slowly put back the shroud, And turned him away and wept aloud : “Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier ! Alas ! I have loved thee for many a year !” The third he once more uplifted the veil, And kissed her upon her mouth so pale : “ Thee loved I always ; I love still but thee; And thee will I love through eternity!”

UHLAND. Translation of J. S. DWIGHT.


Ye banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

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