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But know, if you have n't got riches,

| Then take my advice, darling widow machree, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

Och hone! widow machree !That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches, And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take And you've struck it, - on Poverty Flat.


Och hone! widow machree!

You 'd have me to desire

Then to stir up the fire ;

And sure hope is no liar
Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown, —

In whispering to me
Och hone! widow machree ;

That the ghosts would depart
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black When you 'd me near your heart, -
gown, -

Och hone! widow machree !
Och hone! widow machree.

How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear, -
'T is destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free :
Be no longer'a churl

THE laird o'Cockpen he's proud and he's great,
Of its black silken curl, -

His mind is ta’en up with the things o' the state; Och hone! widow machree.

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,

But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
Widow machree, now the summer is come, –
Och hone! widow machree;

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, When everything smiles, should a beauty look At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; glum ?

M'Clish's ae daughter o Claverse-ha' Lee,
Och hone! widow machree !

A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares;

His wig was weel pouthered, and guid as when
Why, even the bears

new; Now in couples agree;

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; And the mute little fish,

He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, Though they can't spake, they wish, - And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? Och hone! widow machree !

He took the gray mare, and rade cannilie, Widow machree, and when winter comes in, —

And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; Och hone! widow machree,

Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,

She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."
Och hone! widow machree !
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower
And the kettle sings songs


And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" Full of family glee; While alone with your cup

She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Like a hermit you sup,

Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. Och hone! widow machree !

And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low, And how do you know, with the comforts I've And what was his errand he soon let her know. towld,

Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, Och hone! widow machree, —

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld ?

Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e ;
Och hone! widow machree!

He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie,
With such sins on your head,

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
Sure your peace would be fled ;

“She's daft to refuse the Laird o'Cockpen.”
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see

And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Some ghost or some sprite,

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ;
That would wake you each night, “O, for ane I 'll get better, it's waur I 'll get ten ;

Crying “Och hone! widow machree !” | I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen."

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Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, “I've yet another ring from him ; d'ye ses They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the The plain gold circlet that is shining here?” green ;

I took her hand : “O Mary! can it be Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, I That you~” Quoth she, “that I am Mrs. Vere. But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at I don't call that unfaithfulness -- do you ?” Cockpen.

“No," I replied, " for I am married too."




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DEAR Ned, no doubt you 'll be surprised I'd been away from her three years, – about

When you receive and read this letter. that,

I've railed against the marriage state ; And I returned to find my Mary true;

| But then, you see, I knew no better. And though I'd question her, I did not doubt live me

doubt I've met a lovely girl out here ; that

Her manner is — well ---- very winning : It was unnecessary so to do.

We're soon to be --- well, Ned, my dear,

I'll tell you all, from the beginning. 'T was by the chimney-corner we were sitting :

“Mary,” said I,“ have you been always true?” I went to ask her out to ride “Frankly," says she, just pausing in her knit- Last Wednesday — it was perfect weather.

She said she could n't possibly :
“I don't think I've unfaithful been to you: 1 The servants had gone off together
But for the three years past I'll tell you what (Hibernians always rush away,
I've done ; then say if I've been true or not. At cousins' funerals to be looking);

Pies must be made, and she must stay,
“When first you left my grief was uncontrollable; She said, to do that branch of cooking.

Alone I mourned my miserable lot;
And all who saw me thought me inconsolable, “0, let me help you," then I cried :
Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott.

“I'll be a cooker too — how jolly!” To flirt with him anıused me while 't was new : She laughed, and answered, with a smile, I don't count that unfaithfulness -- do you? I “ All right! but you 'll repent your folly ;

For I shall be a tyrant, sir, “The next – oh! let me see — was Frankie And good hard work you ’ll have to grapple ;

So sit down there, and don't you stir,
I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide, ! But take this knife, and pare that apple."
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips,
He gave me his first kiss –” And here she

She rolled her sleeve above her arm, -

That lovely arm, so plump and rounded; 66 We stayed six weeks at uncle's --- how time Outside, the morning sun shone bright; flew !

Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. I don't count that unfaithfulness -- do you ?

Her little fingers sprinkled flour,

And rolled the pie-crust up in masses : • Lord Cecil Fossmore — only twenty-one

I passed the most delightful hour
Lent me his horse. O, how we rode and raced !! Mid butter, sugar, and molasses.
We scoured the downs — we rode to hounds — With deep reflection her sweet eyes
such fun !

Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle:
And often was his arm about my waist, — She sliced the apples, filled her pies,
That was to lift me up and lown. But who

And then the upper crust did settle.
Would call just that unfaithfulness? Would Her rippling waves of golden hair
you ?

1 In one great coil were tightly twisted ;
But locks would break it, here and there,

And curl about where'er they listed.
We met, - 't was at a picnic. O, such weather!
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings And then her sleeve came down, and I

When we were lost in Cliefden woods together. Fastened it up-- her lands were doughy;
Ah, what a happy time we spent, - we two! O, it did take the longest time! -
I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. | Her arm, Ned, was so round and snowy.

Phipps ;

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She blushed, and trembled, and looked shy; I Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare,
Somehow that made me all the bolder ;

All good fellows whose beards are gray, Her arch lips looked so red that I

Did not the fairest of the fair
Well — found her head upon my shoulder. Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away ?
We're to be married, Ned, next month;
Come and attend the wedding revels.

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
I really think that bachelors

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, Are the most miserable devils !

May pray and whisper and we not list,
You 'd better go for some girl's hand ;

Or look away and never be missed, -
And if you are uncertain whether

Ere yet ever a month is gone.
You dare to make a due demand,
Why, just try cooking pies together.

Gillian 's dead! God rest her bier, —

How I loved her twenty years syne !
Marian 's married ; but I sit here,

Alone and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, A PoEr loved a Star, And to it whispered nightly, “Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far? Or why so coldly shine, who shin'st so brightly ?

THE FIRE OF LOVE. O Beauty wooed and unpossest! 0, might I to this beating breast

FROM THE “EXAMEN MISCELLANEUM," 1708. But clasp thee once, and then die blest!” The fire of love in youthful blood, That Star her Poet's love,

Like what is kindled in brushwood, So wildly warm, made human ;

But for a moment burns ; And leaving, for his sake, her heaven above, Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; His Star stooped earthward, and became a It crackles, and to vapor turns, Woman.

And soon itself destroys. “Thou who hast wooed and hast possest, My lover, answer : Which was best,

But when crept into aged veins The Star's beam or the Woman's breast ?" It slowly burns, and then long remains, “I miss from heaven,” the man replied,

And with a silent heat, “A light that drew my spirit to it.”

Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; And to the man the woman sighed,

And though the flame be not so great, “I miss from earth a poet.”

Yet is the heat as strong.

CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL of Dorset. (Owen Meredith.)

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Thy fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love !

Roderick Random, Ch. xl.


Alas! the love of women ! it is known

Love's BLINDNESS. To be a lovely and a fearful thing.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, Don Juan, Cant. ii.

BYRON. And therefo

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Mightier far

Midsummer Night's Dream, Act i. Sc. I. SHAKESPEARE. Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway

None ever loved but at first sight they loved. Of magic potent over sun and star,

Blind Beggar of Alexandria.

GEO. CHAPMAN. Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? breast.

Hero and Leander.


But love is blind, and lovers cannot see There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has

The pretty follies that themselves commit. told,

Merchant of Venice, Act ii. Sc. 6.

SHAKESPEARE. When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. Love on through all ills, and love on till they

Rape of the Lock, Cant. v.

POPE, die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Our souls sit close and silently within,

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; | And their own web from their own entrails spin; And 0, if there be an Elysium on earth, And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, It is this, it is this.

That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. Lalla Rookh: Light of the Harun. MOORE. I Mariage à la Mode, Act ii. Sc. I.


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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
On Sensibility.

Silence in love bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty; Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart,

A beggar that is dumb, you know,
How hard thy yoke ! how cruel is thy dart !

May challenge double pity.
Those 'scape thy anger who refuse thy sway, The Silent Lover.
And those are punished most who most obey.


Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly:

Who can show all his love doth love but lightly. To be in love where scorn is bought with groans ; Sonnet.

S. DANIEL. Coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading monient's mirth,

I never tempted her with word too large ; With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights :

But, as a brother to his sister, showed If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain ;

Bashful sincerity, and comely love.

Much Ado about Nothing, Act iv. Sc. I. SHAKESPEARE. If lost, why then a grievous labor won.

Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act i. Sc. I. SHAKESPEARE. Love is like a landscape which doth stand

ARTS OF LOVE. Smooth at a distance, rough at hand.

Of all the paths lead to a woman's love On Love.


| Pity's the straightest.

Knight of Malta, Act i. Sc. I. BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. Vows with so much passion, swears with so much

So mourned the dame of Ephesus her love; grace, That 't is a kind of heaven to be deluded by him,

And thus the soldier, armed with resolution, Alexander the Great, Act i. Sc. 3.

Told his soft tale, and was a thriving wooer. N. LEE.

Richard III. (Altered), Act ii. Șc. 1. COLLEY CIBBER. To love you was pleasant enough, And 0, 't is delicious to hate you !

| The Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, 70


| An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
Don Fran, Cant. xv.


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