GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.

WILL CARLETON.

[See p. 439.]

JOHN.

I'VE worked in the field all day, a' plowin' the "stony streak; I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse; I've tramped till my legs are weak;

I've choked a dozen swears (so's not to tell Jane fibs)

When the plow-p'int struck a stone and the handles punched my ribs.

I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel,
And Jane wont say to-night that I don't make out a meal.

Well said! the door is locked! but here's she's left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hustled off pell mell!
But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell.

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!
The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a-going away;

I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true;
But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than you."
A han'somer man than me! Why, that ain't much to say;
There's han'somer men than me go past here every day.
There's han'somer men than me-I ain't of the han'some kind;
But a lovin'er man than I was I guess she'll never find.

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!
May the words of love I've spoke be changed to scorpion stings!
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,
And now with a scratch of pen, she's let my heart's blood out!

Curse her! curse her! say I; she'll sometime rue this day!
She'll sometime learn that hate is a game that two can play;
And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born;
And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn!
As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me;
And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one can be the same with two.

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,
She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;
And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has lost.

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;
And maybe she'll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!
I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so !

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin' or other she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad;

And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last;
But I mustn't think of these things-I've buried them in the past.

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;
She'll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;
But I'll live a life so square-and I well know that I can—
That she always will sorry be that she went with that han'somer

man.

Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur!
It seems, when I look at that, as if 'twere holdin' her!
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder's her weddin' gown: I wonder she didn't take that!

'Twas only the other day, she called me her "dearest dear,”
And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise here;
O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell;
Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I would that death had severed us two apart,
You've lost a worshipper here--you've crushed a lovin' heart.
I'll worship no woman again; but I guess I'll learn to pray,
And kneel as you used to kneel before you ran away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some influence up there,

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,

As happy and gay as I was half an hour ago.

JANE (entering).

Why, John, what litter here! you've thrown things all around! Come, what's the matter now? and what 've lost or found?

And here's my father here, awaiting for supper too;

I've been a-riding with him-he's that "handsomer man than you.”

Ha ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John,

Why, John, you look so strange! Come, what has crossed your track?

I was only a-joking you know, I'm willing to take it back.

JOHN (aside).

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream?
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream;

And I think she "smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer;
I hope she don't; good Lord! I hope that they didn't hear!
'Twas one of her practical drives-why didn't I understand?
But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing's settled with me to appreciate heaven well,
'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell!

(By permission of Messrs. Sampson Low & Co.).

A BUNCH OF PRIMROSES.

GEORGE R. SIMS.

[See p. 415.]

"TIs only a faded primrose, dying for want of air,

I and my drooping sisters lie in a garret bare.

We were plucked from the pleasant woodland only a week ago, But our leaves have lost their beauty, and our heads are bending low.

We grew in a yellow cluster under a shady tree,

In a spot where the winds came wooing straight from the Sussex

sea;

And the brisk breeze kissed us boldly as we nodded to and fro
In the smiling April weather, only a week ago.

Only a week this morning! Ah, me! but it seems a year
Since the only dew on our petals was a woman's briny tear;
Since the breeze and the merry sunshine were changed for this
stifling gloom,

And the soot of the smoky chimneys rob us of our bloom.

We grew in a nook so quiet, behind a hedge so high!

We were hid from the peeping children who, laughing, passed us by,
But a primrose-gatherer spied us-his cruel hand came down ;
We were plucked in the early morning, and packed and sent to
town.

We were tossed in a busy market from grimy hand to hand,
Till a great rough woman took us, and hawked us about the
Strand;

Clutched in her dirty fingers our tender stalks were tied,

And " a penny a bunch, who'll buy 'em ?-fine primroses!" she cried.

We lay on the woman's basket till a white-faced girl came past; There was, O such a world of yearning in the lingering look she

cast

Cast on the troubled bunches-a look that seemed to say, "O, if I only had you!"--but she sighed and she turned away.

G G

She was only gone for a moment, and then she was back again; She'd the look on her pale, pinched features that told of the hunger pain;

She held in her hand the penny that ought to have bought her bread,

But she dropped it into the basket and took us home instead.

Home-how we seemed to wither, as the light of day grew dim, And up to a London garret she bore us with weary limb!

But her clasp it was kind and gentle, and there shone a light in her eyes

That made us think for a moment we were under our native skies.

66

She stole in the room on tiptoe, and "Alice!" she softly said; 'See what I've brought you, Alice!" Then a sick girl raised her head,

And a faint voice answered, “Darling, how kind of you to bring
The flowers I love so dearly-I've longed for them all the spring.

"I've thought of it so often, the green bank far away,
And the posies we used to gather-it seems but the other day;
Lay them beside my pillow, they'll last as long as I—
How quickly in cruel London the country blossoms die!"

We pined in our gloomy prison, and we thought how sweet we

were,

Blooming among the hedgerows out in the balmy air,

Where we gladdened the eyes that saw us, all in our yellow pride, And we thought how our lives were wasted as we lay by a sick bedside.

We thought how our lives were wasted until we grew to know
We were dear to the dying workgirl for the sake of the long ago;
That her anguish was half forgotten as she looked upon us and
went

Back in her dreams to the woodland filled with the primrose scent.

We primroses are dying, and so is Alice fast;

But her sister sits beside her, watching her to the last,

Working with swollen eyelids for the white slave's scanty wage, And starving to save her dying and to still the fever's rage.

We stood on the little table beside the sick girl's bed,

And we know by the words she murmurs that she wanders in her head;

She stretches her hand to take us, and laughs like a child at play-
She thinks that she sees us growing on the old bank far away.

Forgotten the gloomy garret, the fierce and the fevered strife—
Forgotten the weary journey that is ending with her life;
The black, black night has vanished, and the weary workgirl hies
Back to her country childhood, plucking a primrose prize.

We have banished awhile her sorrow, we have brought back the sunny smile

That belongs to the children's faces in the days that are free from guile.

The Babylon roar comes floating up from the street below,

Yet she lists to the gentle splashing of a brook in its springtide flow.

The gurgling brook in the meadow, with its primrose-laden brim

How thick were the yellow clusters on the bank where she sat with him!

With him who had loved and lost her, who had trampled a blossom down.

Ah, me! for the country blossoms brought to the cruel town!

Thank God for the good brave sister who found the lost one there;
Who toiled with her for the pittance that paid for that garret bare;
Who slaved when the wasted fingers grew all too slow to sew,
And hid all her troubles bravely that Alice might never know.
We have brought one country sunbeam to shine in that garret
bare;

But to-morrow will see us lifeless-killed by the poisoned air.
Then the primrose dream will vanish, and Alice will ask in vain
For the poor little yellow posy that made her a child again.

*

On to our faded petals there falls a scalding tear,

As we lie to-night in the bosom of her who held us dear.

We shall go to the grave together-for the workgirl lies at rest, With a faded primrose posy clasped to her icy breast.

(By permission of the Author.)

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[See page 216.]

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh? I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.