Round whom the enshadowing I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king. Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!" TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true i EARL OF SOUTHESK — MORTIMER COLLINS 315 Earl of Southesk (SIR JAMES CARNEGIE) THE FLITCH OF DUNMOW COME Micky and Molly and dainty Dolly, Come Betty and blithesome Bill; Ye gossips and neighbors, away with your labors! Come to the top of the hill. For there are Jenny and jovial Joe; By apple and berry, 't is twelve months merry Since Jenny and Joe were wed! So Joe and Jenny are off to Dunmow : Oh, Jenny's as pretty as doves in a ditty; So quick, good people, and come to the show! Merry and merry, merry they go, They've prank'd up old Dobbin with ribands and bobbin, And tether'd his tail in a string! The fat flitch of bacon is not to be taken By many that wear the ring! Good luck, good luck, to Jenny and Joe! Jolly and jolly, jolly they go. Hark! how merry they sing. "O merry, merry, merry are we, Happy as birds that sing in a tree! NOVEMBER'S CADENCE THE bees about the Linden-tree, Would hum a heartsome melody, "Be glad, be sad-thou hast the choice But mingle music with thy voice." The linnets on the Linden-tree, Mortimer Collins A GREEK IDYL HE sat the quiet stream beside, His white feet laving in the tide, And watch'd the pleasant waters glide Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur VERGIL. WHEN, lov'd by poet and painter, Then visions strange, uncertain, Pour thick through the Ivory Gate. Then the oars of Ithaca dip so And the Hero wanders free: At war with the words of Fate, And the blue tide's low susurrus Comes up to the Ivory Gate. Or, clad in the hide of leopard, His sweet Oenone wooes : While the tune of the false one's idyl Or down from green Helvellyn To the winds of Windermere: Who sweeps through the Ivory Gate. Ah, the vision of dawn is leisure- Which guards the realms of Fate, 'Mong dreams of the Ivory Gate. 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 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, By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring Up the airy mountain, Trooping all together; And white owl's feather! LOVELY MARY DONNELLY Он, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. 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 show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. 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 so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. |