He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,

By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;

And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;

But he will not think of me, mother, his brokenhearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,

He said I did not love him

were cold;

he said my words

He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher

game

And it may be that I did, mother; who has n't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother — I know it now too late;

I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;

But no nobler suitor sought me and he has

taken wing,

And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother

throbbing sore;

my head is

And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired

before ;

And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,

Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw

it mild!

William Aytoun.

THE LAUREATE

W

HO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry

To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long
With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord,

But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I'd let my fancies roam abroad

In search of a hint for a birthday ode,

Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me,
With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,
Trance-somely, trance-somely!

Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,

With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,
And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,
And say to each other "Just look down there,
At the nice young man, so tidy and small,
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,
Handsomely, handsomely!

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,

And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,

Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,
As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,
From the broad of my back to the points of my

toes,

When a pellet of paper hit my nose,

Teasingly, sneezingly!

Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me,

Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life,
Apart from care and apart from strife,
With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,
And no deductions at quarter-day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!
With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,
And scribble of verses remarkably few,
And empty at evening a bottle or two,
Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be
The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

William Aytoun.

C

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN

OMRADES, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,

I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a

little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad!

When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had.

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;

Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite

Bless my heart, how very odd! Why surely there's a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,

Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it,

I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I've bound it!

Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shining glove,

Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's

love!