Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France? K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but in loving me, you should love the friend of France, for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat.

K. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Quand j'ay la possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moy (let me see what then? Saint Denis be my speed!) - donc vostre est Francé et vous estes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the Kingdom, as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

Kath. Sauf vostre Honneur, le François que vous parlez est meilleur que l' Anglois lequel je parle.

K. Hen. No, faith, is 't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?

Kath. I cannot tell.

K. Hen. Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I'll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me, and at night, when you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her, dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart; but, good Kate, mock me mer›cifully, the rather, gentle Princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou be'st mine, Kate (as I have a saving faith within me tells thou shalt), I get thee with scambling. But what say'st thou, my fair flower-de-luce?

Kath. I do not know dat.

K. Hen. No; 't is hereafter to know, but now to promise. How answer you, la plus belle Katherine du monde, mon très chère et divin désse?

Kath. Your Majesté have fausee French enough to deceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France.

K. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French. By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me thou dost, not

withstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. I was created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face; thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand and say Harry of England, I am thine: which word thou shalt no sooner bless my ears withal, but I will tell thee aloud - England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine. Who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best King, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music, for thy voice is music, and thy English broken; therefore, Queen of all Katherines, break thy mind to me in broken English: wilt thou have me?

Kath. Dat is as it shall please de Roy mon père.

K. Hen. Nay it will please him well, Kate: it shall please him, Kate.

Kath. Den it shall also content me.

K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you — my

queen.

- William Shakespeare.

WIDOW MALONE

Did you hear of the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone!

O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone

Ohones

So lovely the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone 'T was known! That no one could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,

(How quare!

It's little for blushing they care

Down there.)

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste,—

"O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone,

My own!"

"O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone."

you're

If for widows you die,

But strong.

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

Charles Lever.

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN ·

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade;

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he:

"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should

see;

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,

Leander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,—
But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-"O what was that, my daughter?"

""T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-" Now bring me my harpoon! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR

When first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day:

A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of death in warlike cars;
While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,

That knock men down in the market town.
As right and left they fly;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,-

For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart,

That is hit from that low-backed car.