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.

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!

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

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?

'Tis 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 a ten-pound note,

It is

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.]

THE WILLOW-TREE

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!

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)

L

I

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!