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And ere the dawn of day appeared,

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard,

And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,

An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing

Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,

The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for nevermore

That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor now no more

Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,

Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, Nor ever lead the merry dance,

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveler oft hath sighed,

And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onward they 've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE

The Sailor's Wife.

AND are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel.

Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin 's at the door ?
Reach down my cloak, I 'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.
For there 's nae luck about the house,

There 's nae luck at a';
There 's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman 's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockins pearly blue;
It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he 's been lang awa'.

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-

In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin 's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-

In troth I 'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There 's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

JEAN ADAM.

The Toper's Apology.

I'm often ask'd by plodding souls

And men of crafty tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls,

And tippling all night long.
Now, though these cautious knaves I scory),

For once I 'll not disdain
To tell them why I sit till morn

And fill my glass again.

'T is by the glow my bumper gives

Life's picture 's mellow made; The fading light then brightly lives,

And softly sinks the shade;

Some happier tint still rises there

With every drop I drainAnd that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,

No frolic flight will take;
But round a bowl she 'll dip and fly,

Like swallows round a lake.
Then if the nymph will have her share

Before she 'll bless her swain-
Why that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again,

In life I've rung all changes too,

Run every pleasure down,-
Tried all extremes of fancy through,

And lived with half the town;
For me there 's nothing new or rare

Till wine deceives my brain-
And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

There 's many a lad I knew is dead,

And many a lass grown old;
And as the lesson strikes my head,

My weary heart grows cold.
But wine awhile drives off despair,

Nay, bids a hope remain-
And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state

In these convulsive days,
I can't endure the ruin'd fate

My sober eye surveys;
But, 'milst the bottle's dazzling glare,

I see the gloom less plain

And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass,

And sit with sober air,
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,

Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain-
And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Nay, do n't we see Love's fetters, too,

With different holds entwine?
While nought but death can some undo,

There 's some give way to wine.
With me the lighter head I wear

The lighter hangs the chainAnd that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

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And now I 'll tell, to end my song,

At what I most repine;
This cursed war, or right or wrong,

Is war against all wine;
Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare

As juice of France or Spain,
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

CHARLES MORRIS

The Three Ularnings.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground:
'T was therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our later stages,

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