Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo:
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be ?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

GEORGE WITHER.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night.

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays, if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Whist! wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin :
Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me!

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god;

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me;
Spare not, but play thee!

THOMAS LODGE.

COUNTY GUY.

FROM "QUENTIN DURWARD."

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know,
But where is County Guy?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove; Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,
You can be no more, you know.

ROBERT BURNS.

UNSATISFACTORY.

"HAVE other lovers - say, my love

Loved thus before to-day?"

"They may have, yes, they may, my love; Not long ago they may."

"But, though they worshipped thee, my love, Thy maiden heart was free?" "Don't ask too much of me, my love; Don't ask too much of me."

"Yet, now 't is you and I, my love,

Love's wings no more will fly?" "If love could never die, my love, Our love should never die."

In buds, and odors, and bright hues!
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies ;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom!
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.

What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorons rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach ;
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight us well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos!

A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
('Tis in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)
Then, after we have kissed its wit
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer, al! of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
Ami Little Darling (mignonette);

DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. DUNCAN GRAY cam' here to woo

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

On blythe Yule night when we were fou -
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Mg was deaf as Ailsa craig -
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

THE DULE 'S I THIS BONNET O' MINE.

LANCASHIRE DIALECT.

THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine:
My ribbins 'll never be reet;
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,

For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet;
He met me i' th' lone t' other day

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he 'll let me, aw will! When he took my two honds into his,

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; An' aw durst n't look up in his face,

Becose on him seein' my e'en.
My cheek went as red as a rose;

There's never a mortal con tell
Heaw happy aw felt, for, thae knows,

One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'.

"Now, Rory, be aisy!" sweet Kathleen would

cry,

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, "With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what

I'm about;

Faith! you've tazed till I've put on my cloak inside out."

"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way Ye've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?

For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike: The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound—"

"Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than

the ground."

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you

so!"

"Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted

to hear,

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, kape dhraming that same till ye die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

66

Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough;

Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light,

And he kissed her sweet lips, don't you think he was right?

"Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — you 'll hug me no

more,

That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before."

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make

sure!

For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory

O'More.

SAMUEL LOVER.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR. WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy,

'T was on a market day:
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay ;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'll marry Sally!

O, then we'll wed, and then we 'll bed, But not in our alley!

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em ;

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When she is by I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his bellyful,

I'll bear it all for Sally;

For she is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that 's in the week
I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt
The Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O, then I shall have money!
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

And give it to my honey;

I would it were ten thousand pound!
I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all
Make game of me and Sally,
And, but for her, I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley;

HENRY CArey.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

O 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 shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

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 gathered