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THE LITTLE BROWN MAN.

The more the people sneer

At her dear:

"Then d'ye see," says he, "my plan,

D'ye see," says he, "my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!" Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

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When at last laid fairly level,

And the priest (he getting worse)

'Gan discourse

Of Death and of the Devil,

THE BUCKET.

Our little sinner sighed,

And replied:

"Please your reverence, my plan,

Please your reverence, my plan,

My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!"

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!
PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER. (French.)

Translation of WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!

TO CELIA.

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

WHEN WE TWO PARTED.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Translation of BEN JONSON.

PHILOSTRATUS. (Greek.)

WHEN WE TWO PARTED.

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss ;
Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow:

It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

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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!

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