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THOMAS MOURE

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

And the best of all ways As the music clashed in the hall ;

To lengthen our days And long by the garden lake I stood,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all ;

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star, From the meadow your walks have left so sweet More glorious far, That whenever a March-wind sighs,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. He sets the jewel-print of your feet

Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear, In violets blue as your eyes,

The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, To the woody hollows in which we meet,

Or, in watching the flight And the valleys of Paradise.

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree ;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ;

AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL!
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, The lilies and roses were all awake,

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinThey sighed for the dawn and thee.

ning;

Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is Come hither ! the dances are done;

beginning In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest moon Queen lily and rose in one ;

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

valley ; To the flowers, and be their sun.

While all the air rings with the soft, loving things There has fallen a splendid tear

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the

while, She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near" ;

Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, And the white rose weeps, “She is late";

glancing ; The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear";

'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues, And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

So she could n't but choose to — go off to the

dancing She is coming, my own, my sweet !

And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Were it ever so airy a tread,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosMy heart would hear her and beat,

ing; Were it earth in an earthly bed ;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil, – My dust would hear her and beat,

Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought Had I lain for a century dead ;

of refusing.
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in

motion ;

With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the The young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, Cheeks bright as the rose, - feet light as the doe's, How sweet to rove

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Through Morna's grove,

Search the world all around from the sky to the While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

ground, Then awake ! - the heavens look bright, my dear! No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 'T is never too late for delight, my dear !

dancing!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ocean.

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And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay,

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory

and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou

art.

THOMAS PERCY, D.D.

IV.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of

bliss, And thy Angel I 'll be, mid the horrors of Come when you're looked for, or come without

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; this,

warning; Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you, pursue,

And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too !

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks fargreener than ever,

And the linnets are singing, “True lovers don't
THE WELCOME.

you !

THOMAS MOORE.

sever!”

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WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,

MY LAD.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

O WAISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na' comin' to me.
And come, &c.

O whistle, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Yet look, &c.

O whistle, &c.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, &c.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks

grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, -
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

ROBERT BURNS.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

GO, HAPPY ROSE.

COME, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtlen
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold ;
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love !

Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,

That so oft hath fettered me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;

Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill. Take then my blessing thus, and go, And tell her this, - but do not so !

Lest a handsome anger fly,
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

I.

Every wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

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