Up the Didland stairs she went,
To the Didland door, sir;
Porters lost in wonderment,
Let her pass before, sir.

"Madam," says the old chief Clerk,
"Sure we can't admit ye."
"Where's the Didland Junction
deed?"

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,
Should I survive the day,
I'll drink a bumper with my lord
Upon the last of May.

That I may reach that happy time
The kindly gods I pray,
For are not ducks and pease in prime
Upon the last of May?

At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then,
My knife and fork shall play;
But better wine and better men
I shall not meet in May.

And though, good friend, with whom I dine,

Your honest head is gray,
And, like this grizzled head of mine,
Has seen its last of May;

Yet, with a heart that's ever kind,
A gentle spirit gay,

You've spring perennial in your mind,
And round you make a May !

AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR."

"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
Upon the solitary plain,
And trembled at the angry wind,

And shrunk before the bitter rain.
And oh! 't was in a blessed hour
A passing wanderer chanced to see,
And, pitying the lonely flower,

To stoop and gather me.

I fear no more the tempest rude,
On dreary heath no more I pine,
But left my cheerless solitude,

To deck the breast of Caroline.
Alas our days are brief at best,

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!

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!

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?
Some one has paid my tailor's bill?
No: every morn the tailor raps;
My IO U's are extant still.
I still am prey of debt and dun;

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;
I drove as hard as I could go.
The London sky was dirty drab,
And dirty brown the London snow.
And as I rattled in a cant-

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,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark! what a ravishing note the love-
lorn Bulbul pours.

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,

caïque

The Rose would also seek,