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The boa's'n pipes the watch below,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho! Then here's a health afore we go,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho!

A long long life to my sweet wife and mates at sea;

An' keep our bones from Davy Jones where'er we be,

An' may you meet a mate as sweet as Nancy Lee;

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho!

The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall

be,

Yeo-ho! we go across the sea ;

The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be,

The sailor's wife his star shall be.

A BIRD IN THE HAND

THERE were three young maids of Lee,
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
But these young maids they cannot find
A lover each to suit her mind;
The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,
The rich young lord is not rich enough,
And one is too poor and one too tall,
And one just an inch too short for them all.
"Others pick and choose and why not we?"
"We can very well wait," said the maids
of Lee.

There were three young maids of
Lee,

They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.

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He may take the one, or the two, or the three,

If he 'll only take them away from Lee.
There are three old maids at Lee,
They are cross as cross can be,
And there they are, and there they'll be
To the end of the chapter one, two,
three,

These three old maids of Lee.

DOUGLAS GORDON

"Row me o'er the strait, Douglas Gordon, Row me o'er the strait, my love," said she, "Where we greeted in the summer, Douglas Gordon,

Beyond the little Kirk by the old, old
trysting tree."

Never a word spoke Douglas Gordon,
But he looked into her eyes so tenderly,
And he set her at his side,
And away across the tide

They floated to the little Kirk,
And the old, old trysting tree.

"Give me a word of love, Douglas Gordon, Just a word of pity, O my love," said she, "For the bells will ring to-morrow, Douglas Gordon,

My wedding bells, my love, but not for

you and me.

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DARBY AND JOAN

DARBY dear, we are old and gray,
Fifty years since our wedding day,
Shadow and sun for every one
As the years roll on ;

Darby dear, when the world went wry,
Hard and sorrowful then was I-
Ah! lad, how you cheered me then,
Things will be better, sweet wife, again!
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

Darby, dear, but my heart was wild
When we buried our baby child,
Until you whispered "Heav'n knows best!"
And my heart found rest;

Darby, dear, 't was your loving hand
Showed the way to the better land
Ah! lad, as you kiss'd each tear,
Life grew better, and Heaven more near.
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

Hand in hand when our life was May,
Hand in hand when our hair is gray,
Shadow and sun for every one,
As the years roll on ;

Hand in hand when the long night-tide
Gently covers us side by side-
Ah! lad, though we know not when,
Love will be with us forever then :
Always the same, Darby, my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

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THE POET IN THE CITY

THE Poet stood in the sombre town,
And spake to his heart, and said,
"O weary prison, devised by man!
O seasonless place, and dead!"
His heart was sad, for afar he heard

The sound of the Spring's light tread.

He thought he saw in the pearly east
The pale March sun arise,
The happy housewife beneath the thatch,
With hand above her eyes,
Look out to the cawing rooks, that built
So near to the quiet skies.

Out of the smoke, and noise, and sin
The heart of the Poet cried :
"O God! but to be Thy laborer there,
On the gentle hill's green side,

To leave the struggle of want and wealth,

And the battle of lust and pride!"

He bent his ear, and he heard afar The growing of tender things,

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No wonder round those urns of mingled clays

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WHAT curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed,

With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair, Have made their swarthy lovers call them fair,

With these spent strings, when brutes were deified,

And Memnon in the sunrise sprang and cried,

That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days, And love-winds smote Bubastis, and the And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,

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bare

Black breasts of carven Pasht received the

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For
poor dumb lips had songs for him
And children's dreamings ran in tune,
And strange old heroes, weird and dim,
Walked by his side.

The very shadows loved him well
And danced and flickered in the moon,
And left him wondrous tales to tell
Men far and wide.

And now no more be smiling walks Through greenwood alleys full of sun, And, as he wanders, turns and talks, Though none be there;

The children watch in vain the place Where they were wont, when day was done,

To see their poet's sweet worn face,
And faded hair.

Yet dream not such a spirit dies,
Though all its earthly shrine decay!
Transfigured under clearer skies,
He sings anew;

The frail soul-covering, racked with pain,
And scored with vigil, fades away,
The soul set free and young again
Glides upward through.

Weep not; but watch the moonlit air!
Perchance a glory like a star
May leave what hangs about him there,
And flash on us! . . .
Behold! the void is full of light,

The beams pierce heaven from bar to bar,
And all the hollows of the night
Grow luminous !

DE ROSIS HIBERNIS

AMBITIOUS Nile, thy banks deplore

Their Flavian patron's deep decay ; Thy Memphian pilot laughs no more To see the flower-boat float away; Thy winter-roses once were twined

Across the gala-streets of Rome, And thou, like Omphale, couldst bind The vanquished victor in his home.

But if the barge that brought thy store Had foundered in the Lybian deep,

It had not slain thy glory more,

Nor plunged thy rose in salter sleep; Nor gods nor Cæsars wait thee now,

No jealous Pæstum dreads thy spring,

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