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Round whom the enshadowing
Of babyhood's royal dignities.
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
With love's invisible sceptre laden ;

I am thine Esther to command

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king.

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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

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"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,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ;
Not half worthy the like of you :
Now all men beside seem to me like
shadows -

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;
Jolly and jolly, jolly they go,
Jogging over the hill.

By apple and berry, 't is twelve months

merry

Since Jenny and Joe were wed!
And never a bother or quarrelsome pother
To trouble the board or bed.

So Joe and Jenny are off to Dunmow :
Happy and happy, happy they go,
Young and rosy and red.

Oh, Jenny's as pretty as doves in a ditty;
And Jenny, her eyes are black;
And Joey's a fellow as merry and mellow
As ever shoulder'd a sack.

So quick, good people, and come to the show!

Merry and merry, merry they go,
Bumping on Dobbin's back.

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!

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NOVEMBER'S CADENCE

THE bees about the Linden-tree,
When blithely summer blooms were spring-
ing,

Would hum a heartsome melody,
The simple baby-soul of singing;
And thus my spirit sang to me
When youth its wanton way was wing-
ing:

"Be glad, be sad-thou hast the choice But mingle music with thy voice."

The linnets on the Linden-tree,
Among the leaves in autumn dying,
Are making gentle melody,
A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;
And thus my spirit sings to me
While years are flying, flying, flying:
"Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,
But mourn with music in thy voice.

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
Beneath the skies of summer.
She singing came from mound to mound,
Her footfall on the thymy ground

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Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur
Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris:
Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto;
Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes.

VERGIL.

WHEN, lov'd by poet and painter,
The sunrise fills the sky,
When night's gold urns grow fainter,
And in depths of amber die—
When the morn-breeze stirs the curtain
Bearing an odorous freight -

Then visions strange, uncertain,

Pour thick through the Ivory Gate.

Then the oars of Ithaca dip so
Silently into the sea
That they wake not sad Calypso,

And the Hero wanders free:
He breasts the ocean-furrows,

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,
'Mid Ida's freshest dews,
Paris, the Teucrian shepherd,

His sweet Oenone wooes :
On the thought of her coming bridal
Unutter'd joy doth wait,

While the tune of the false one's idyl
Rings soft through the Ivory Gate.

Or down from green Helvellyn
The roar of streams I hear,
And the lazy sail is swelling

To the winds of Windermere:
That girl with the rustic bodice
'Mid the ferry's laughing freight
Is as fair as any goddess

Who sweeps through the Ivory Gate.

Ah, the vision of dawn is leisure-
But the truth of day is toil;
And we pass from dreams of pleasure
To the world's unstay'd turmoil.
Perchance, beyond the river

Which guards the realms of Fate,
Our spirits may dwell forever

'Mong dreams of the Ivory Gate.

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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.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

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!

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.

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