SPRING AND WINTER. I. WHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, Do paint the meadows with delight, Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear, When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! II. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Tu-whit, to-who!— a merry note, When all aloud the wind doth blow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw; Tu-whit, to-who!- a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. SHAKSPEARE. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE student-comrades crossed over the Rhine; "Landlady, have you good beer and wine? And where is that pretty young daughter of thine? ' "My ale and wine are fresh and clear; My daughter lies on her funeral bier.” And when they passed to the chamber back, THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. The first from her face the shroud-veil took, And gazed upon her-a mournful look. "Ah! wert thou but living, thou lovely maid, I would love thee from this time," he said. The second covered the altered face, And turned him, weeping, from the place: "That thou should'st lie on the funeral bier, Whom I have loved this many a year! FAREWELL TO NANCY. But the last still snatched away the veil, "I loved thee ever-still I love thee, JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. (German.) Translation of C. G. LELAND and J. W. PALMER. FAREWELL TO NANCY. AE fond kiss-and then we sever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; We had ne'er been broken-hearted. THE MARINER'S WIFE. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; ROBERT BURNS. THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to talk o' wark? Ye jades, fling by your wheel! For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava; There's little pleasure in the house Is this a time to think o' wark, Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay, Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot, |