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“Where? where?” screamed the lady; and Echo
- screamed, “Where?”
The man couldn't say “There!”
He had no breath to spare,
But, gasping for air, he could only respond
By pointing, he pointed, alas! To THE POND.
'Twas elen so, poor dear knight!—with his
“specs” and his hat
He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that,
When, close to the side
Of the bank, he espied
An “uncommon fine” tadpole, remarkably fat!
He stooped;—and he thought her
His own;–he had caught her!
Got hold of her tail, and to land almost brought
her, -
When—he plumped head and heels into, fifteen
feet water!

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
Alas, for Sir Thomas!—she grieved for
him.
As she saw two serving-men, sturdy of
limb,
His body between them bear:

She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and
cried,
For of sorrow brimful was her cup;
She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down
and died
If Captain MacBride
Had not been by her side,
With the gardener; they both their assistance
supplied,
And managed to hold her up.
But, when she “comes to,”
O, 'tis shocking to view
The sight which the corpse reveals!
Sir Thomas's body,
It looked so odd, he
Was half eaten up by the eels!
His waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes,
Were all gnawled through and through!
And out of each shoe
An eel they drew;
And from each of his pockets they pulled out two!
And the gardener himself had secreted a few,
As well we may suppose;
For when he came running to give the alarm
He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.

Good Father John

Was summoned anon;

Holy water was sprinkled,

And little bells tinkled,

And tapers were lighted,

- And incense ignited,

And masses were sung, and masses were said,
All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,
And all night no one thought about going to bed.

But Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair, And, ere morning came, that winsome dame Had made up her mind,-or what's much the Same, Had thought about—once more “changing her name.” And she said, with a pensive air, To Thompson the valet, while taking away, When supper was over, the cloth and the tray,+ “Eels a many I’ve ate; but any So good ne'er tasted before!— They're a fish, too, of which I’m remarkably fond.—

Go, pop Sir Thomas again in the pond;
Poor dear!--HE'LL CATCH Us SOME MORE!”

LOPE FROM THE NORTH.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

I had a love in soft south land,
Beloved through April far in May;

He waited on my lightest breath,

And never dared to say me nay.

He saddened if my cheer was sad,
But gay he grew if I was gay;

We never differed on a hair,
My yes his yes, my nay his nay.

The wedding hour was come, the aisles
Were flushed with sun and flowers that day;

I pacing balanced in my thoughts:
“It’s quite too late to think of nay.”—

My bridegroom answered in his turn,
Myself had almost answered “Yea:”

When through the flashing nave I heard
A struggle and resounding “Nay.”

Bridesmaids and bridegroom shrank in fear,
But I stood high who stood at bay:

“And if I answer yea, fair sir,
What man art thou to bar with nay?”

He was a strong man from the north,
Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous grey;

“Put yea by for another time
In which I will not say thee nay.”

He took me in his strong white arms,
He bore me on his horse away

O'er crag, morass, and hair-breadth pass,
But never asked me yea or nay.

He made me fast with book and bell,
With links of love he makes me stay:

Till now I’ve neither heart nor power
Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.

JANE TAYLOR.

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er, In the depth of his cell with his stone-covered floor, Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain; But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers We know not; indeed, 'tis no business of ours.

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