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Yet when he looks me in the face

I blush as red as cochineal;
And think did he but know my case,

How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

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III

The sun bursts out in furious blaze,

I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise,

How can I, without cash at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot

By cafés where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot,

A frothing pot of beer of Lille !

1

What is yon house with walls so thick,

All girt around with guard and grille? O gracious gods! it makes me sick,

It is the prison-house of Lille !

O cursed prison strong and barred,

It does my very blood congeal ! I tremble as I pass the guard,

And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays,

I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV

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Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,

And at a Popish altar kneel?
Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,

I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille !
Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,

Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops

The miserablest man in Lille.
And lo! as I beheld with awe

A pictured saint (I swear 't is real),
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!

It did ! and I had hope in Lille !
'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat,

Although I could not pay my meal:
I hasten back into the street

Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.
What see I on my table stand,

A letter with a well-known seal ?
'T is grandmamma's! I know her hand, -

To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."
I feel a choking in my throat,

I pant and stagger, faint and reel!
It is - it is - a ten-pound note,

And I'm no more in pawn at Lille ! [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored

to the bosom of his happy family.]

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K

NOW ye the willow-tree

Whose grey leaves quiver,

Whispering gloomily
To yon pale river;
Lady, at even-tide

Wander not near it,
They say its branches hide

A sad, lost spirit !

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Domine, Domine!

Sing we a litany, Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;

Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany,

Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!

THE WILLOW-TREE

(ANOTHER VERSION)

I

L

ONG by the willow-trees

Vainly they sought her,

Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the grey water: " Where is my lovely one?

Where is my daughter?

II

“Rouse thee, sir constable

Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net,

Boatman your hook. Beat in the lily-beds,

Dive in the brook!"

III

Vainly the constable

Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman

Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

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