PICTURES, FANCIES, AND MEMORIES.

THE PIPER.

PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child;

And he, laughing, said to me,

"Pipe a song about a lamb !"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again!"
So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thou down, and write
In a book, that all may read!"
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear;
And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake.

SONG OF THE ELFIN MILLER.

FULL merrily rings the millstone round,
Full merrily rings the wheel,
Full merrily gushes out the grist —
Come, taste my fragrant meal!
As sends the lift its snowy drift,

So the meal comes in a shower;
Work, fairies, fast, for time flies past-
I borrowed the mill an hour.

The miller he's a worldly man,
And maun hae double fee ;

So draw the sluice of the churl's dam,
And let the stream come free.
Shout, fairies, shout! see, gushing out,
The meal comes like a river:

The top of the grain on hill and plain
Is ours, and shall be ever.

One elf goes chasing the wild bat's wing
And one the white owl's horn;

One hunts the fox for the white o' his tail,
And we winna hae him till morn.
One idle fay, with the glow-worm's ray,
Runs glimmering 'mong the mosses :
Another goes tramp wi' the will-o-wisps' lamp,
To light a lad to the lasses.

O haste, my brown elf, bring me corn
From Bonnie Blackwood plains;

Go, gentle fairy, bring me grain

From green Dalgona mains;

But, pride of a' at Closeburn ha',

Fair is the corn and fatter ;
Taste, fairies, taste, a gallanter grist
Has never been wet with water.

Hilloah! my hopper is heaped high ;
Hark to the well-hung wheels!
They sing for joy; the dusty roof
It clatters and it reels.

Haste, elves, and turn yon mountain burn
Bring streams that shine like siller;
The dam is down, the moon sinks soon,
And I maun grind my miller.

Ha! bravely done, my wanton elves,
That is a foaming stream:

See how the dust from the mill flies,
And chokes the cold moon-beam.
Haste, fairies, fleet come baptized feet,
Come sack and sweep up clean,

And meet me soon, ere sinks the moon,
In thy green vale, Dalreen.

THE FAIRY FOLK.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n't go a-hunting

For fear of little men ;
Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Allan Cuningham.

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music,

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long ; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lakes,

On a bed of flag leaves,

Watching till she wakes.