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And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew so sharp and shrill !
“6 And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go,
Away from every horn;
From the blind old widow's corn:
“Oh, the poor blind widow
Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong!'
-“ And some they brought the brown linseed,
And flung it down from the Low : • And this,' said they, "by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow !
“Oh, the poor lame weaver!
How will he laugh outright
All full of flowers by night!'
“ And then upspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin; 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
* And I want some more to spin.
“I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another A little sheet for Mary's bed
And an apron for her mother.'
“ And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
There was no one left but me.
“ And all on the top of the Caldon-Low
The mists were cold and gray,
That round about me lay.
“But, as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard, afar below,
And how merry the wheel did go!
“ And I peeped into the widow's field,
And, sure enough, was seen
All standing stiff and green !
“ And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high ; But I saw the weaver at his gate
With the good news in his eye!
Now, this is all that I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
For I'm tired as I can be!”
THE FAIRY TO PUCK.
OVER hill, over dale,
SONG OF THE ELFIN MILLER.
Full merrily rings the millstone round,
Full merrily rings the wheel,
Come, taste my fragrant meal!
So the meal comes in a shower;
I borrowed the mill an hour.
The miller he's a worldly man,
And maun hae double fee;
And let the stream come free.
The meal comes like a river:
Is ours, and shall be ever.
One elf goes chasing the wild bat's wing
And one the white owl's horn;
And we winna hae him till morn.
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;
Fair is the corn and fatter;
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 ;
And I maun grind my miller.
Ha! bravely done, my wanton elves,
That is a foaming stream:
And chokes the cold moon-beam.
Come sack and sweep up clean,
In thy green vale, Dalreen.
THE LARCH AND THE OAK.
THOMAS CARLYLE. A FABLE.
“What is the use of thee, thou gnarled sapling ?” said a young larch-tree to a young oak. “I grow three feet in a year, thou scarcely so many inches; I am straight and taper as a reed, thou straggling and twisted as a loosened withe.” — “And thy duration," answered the oak, “is some third part of man's life and I am appointed to flourish for a thousand years. Thou art felled and sawed into paling, where thou rottest and art burned after a single summer; of me are fashioned battle-ships, and I carry mariners and heroes into unknown seas."
The richer a nature the harder and slower its devel