My master carries me to church, And often am I blamèd I leave the church in sermon-time, When Christmas comes about again, And would it were ten thousand pound! For she's the darling of my heart, My master and the neighbors all A slave, and row a galley; O, then we'll wed, and then we 'll bed, HENRY CAREY. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, rest; Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall; Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock, How clear they are! how dark they are! and they give me many a shock ; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and I'D been away from her three years, about that, so fine, And I returned to find my Mary true; It's rolling down upon. her neck, and gathered And though I'd question her, I did not doubt that in a twine. It was unnecessary so to do. That you—" Quoth she, "that I am Mrs. Vere. Then take my advice, darling widow machree, I don't call that unfaithfulness do you?" "No," I replied, "for I am married too." WIDOW MACHREE. ANONYMOUS. WIDOW machree, it's no wonder you frown, Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! widow machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear, Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone! widow machree! Och hone! widow machree, And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me, Och hone! widow machree ! You'd have me to desire Then to stir up the fire; And sure hope is no liar In whispering to me That the ghosts would depart SAMUEL LOVER. THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. THE laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great, 157 ANONYMOUS. COOKING AND COURTING. FROM TOM TO NED. DEAR Ned, no doubt you'll be surprised, When you receive and read this letter. I've railed against the marriage state; But then, you see, I knew no better. I've met a lovely girl out here ; Her manner is We're soon to be I'll tell you all, well very winning : well, Ned, my dear, from the beginning. I went to ask her out to ride Last Wednesday it was perfect weather. She said she could n't possibly : The servants had gone off together (Hibernians always rush away, At cousins' funerals to be looking); Pies must be made, and she must stay, She said, to do that branch of cooking. "O, let me help you," then I cried : "I'll be a cooker too—how jolly!" She laughed, and answered, with a smile, "All right! but you'll repent your folly; For I shall be a tyrant, sir, And good hard work you'll have to grapple ; So sit down there, and don't you stir, But take this knife, and pare that apple." She rolled her sleeve above her arm, That lovely arm, so plump and rounded; Outside, the morning sun shone bright ; Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. Her little fingers sprinkled flour, And rolled the pie-crust up in masses : With deep reflection her sweet eyes And then the upper crust did settle. Her rippling waves of golden hair In one great coil were tightly twisted; But locks would break it, here and there, And curl about where'er they listed. And then her sleeve came down, and I Fastened it up- her hands were doughy; O, it did take the longest time! Her arm, Ned, was so round and snowy. She blushed, and trembled, and looked shy; Somehow that made me all the bolder; Her arch lips looked so red that I Well-found her head upon my shoulder. We're to be married, Ned, next month; Come and attend the wedding revels. I really think that bachelors Are the most miserable devils! You'd better go for some girl's hand; And if you are uncertain whether You dare to make a due demand, Why, just try cooking pies together. ANONYMOUS. POSSESSION. A POET loved a Star, And to it whispered nightly, Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far? Or why so coldly shine, who shinest so brightly? O Beauty wooed and unpossest ! O, might I to this beating breast But clasp thee once, and then die blest!" So wildly warm, made human ; And leaving, for his sake, her heaven above, "Thou who hast wooed and hast possest, OWEN MEREDITH (LORD LYTTON). |