Up the Didland stairs she went, "Madam," says the old chief Clerk, Dauntlessly says KITTY. "If you doubt my honesty, Look at my receipt, sir.' Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, Smiling as he meets her. KITTY at the table sits THE LAST OF MAY. (IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE 1ST.) By fate's benevolent award, That I may reach that happy time At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, And though, good friend, with whom I dine, Your honest head is gray, Yet, with a heart that's ever kind, You've spring perennial in your mind, AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR." AH! bleak and barren was the moor, Ah! loud and piercing was the storm, (Whither the old Clerk leads her), The cottage roof was shelter'd sure, "I deliver this," she says, "As my act and deed, sir." The cottage hearth was bright and warm SONG OF THE VIOLET. A HUMBLE flower long time I pined And shrunk before the bitter rain. To stoop and gather me. I fear no more the tempest rude, To deck the breast of Caroline. Nor long I fear will mine endure, Though shelter'd here upon a breast So gentle and so pure. It draws the fragrance from my leaves, It robs me of my sweetest breath, And every time it falls and heaves, It warns me of my coming death. But one I know would glad forego All joys of life to be as I; An hour to rest on that sweet breast, And then, contented, die. she is wrinkled and old. The gentle queen turns pale hear those words of sin, But the king he only laughs — and bids the dance begin. the fair - a hawk a golden I've seen her in my dreams-riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh fell into his snare, as she At the little tender creature - who wept and tore her hair! "Come forth, thou Paynim knight!" he shouts in accents clear. The giant and the maid- both tremble his voice to hear. Saint Mary guard him well! - he draws his falchion keen, The giant and the knight — are fight- | Who will shield the fearless heart? ing on the green. I see them in my dreams - his blade gives stroke on stroke, The giant pants and reels tumbles like an oak! and he With what a blushing grace · falls upon his knee And takes the lady's hand-and whispers, "You are free!" Ah! happy childish tales- of knight and faërie ! - I waken from my dreams but there's ne'er a knight for me! and wish I waken from my dreams that I could be A child by the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee! LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO | My office-time I found to-day THRILL AND GLOW? My toils, my pleasures, every one, I find are stale, and dull, and slow; And yesterday, when work was done, I felt myself so sad and low, I could have seized a sentry's gun My wearied brains out out to blow. What is it makes my blood to run? What makes my heart to beat and glow? My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps? My elder brother's stout and well. What is it makes my blood to run? What makes my heart to glow and swell? Disgusting as it ever was. At three, I went and tried the Clubs And yawned and saunter'd to and fro; And now my heart jumps up ard throbs, And all my soul is in a glow. At half past four I had the cab; er down by dear old Bolton Row, A something made my heart to pant, And caused my cheek to flush and glow. What could it be that made me find Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club? Why was it that I laughed and grinned At whist, although I lost the rub? What was it made me drink like mad Thirteen small glasses of Curaço? That made my inmost heart so glad, And every fibre thrill and glow? She's home again! she's home, she's home! Away all cares and griefs and pain; I knew she would she's back from Rome; There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard. THE CAÏQUE YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caïque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak. Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright, As mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. Under the boughs I sat and listened still, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. "O bird of song, there's one in this He deafens me with his diabolical screaming. caïque The Rose would also seek, |