LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

"T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, -
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,

If ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72) Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house forget it not, I pray And look awhile upon a picture there.

"T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,

The last of that illustrious family;

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ,
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor,
That by the way—it may be true or false —
But don't forget the picture; and you will not
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child, - her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, ""T is but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

He who observes it, ere he passes on,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,

That he may call it up when far away.

"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried;
"Here tarry a moment, - I'll hide, I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace
The clew to my secret lurking-place."
Away she ran, - and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."
They sought her that night! and they sought her

next day!

And they sought her in vain when a week passed away!

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle, they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
O, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!— and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

I WILL go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea.

So that her high-born kinsmen came,

And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me.

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

In this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead, &c.

Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead, &c.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead, &c.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead, &c.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

MINSTREL'S SONG.

O, SING unto my roundelay!

O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead, &c.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be ;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead, &c.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead, &c.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably). and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]

IN a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,

One terrible blot in a ledger so neat :
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, And the panes from being broken were known to

be glass.

On the rickety signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to

sell;

both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and
breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare ;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was
so frightful,

The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,

The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;

Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,

For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

Full forty years since turned the key in that door. 'Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;

The seats are in order, the dishes a-row :

But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the

mouse

Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in

crust;

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

[This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender.

land, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by

James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders

of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas

The

tle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown.
following inscription is still legible, though defaced : --
"HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE
MARJORY."
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
My love he built me a bonnie bower,
And clad it a' wi' lily flower;
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,,
Than my true-love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day,
He spied his sport, and went away;
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear :
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse mysell alane;
I watched his body night and day;
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ;
I digged a grave, and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair?
O, think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lively knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair
I'll chain my heart forevermair.

ANONYMOUS.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. WORD was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!)