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O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is

thy bosom!
To love me in prosperity,

And leave me in adversity !
O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is

thy bosom!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for

thine example !
So long as summer laughs she sings,

But in the autumn spreads her wings.
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for

thine example!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir

ror of thy falsehood !
It flows so long as falls the rain,

In drought its springs soon dry again.
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir-

ror of thy falsehood !

ANNIE OF THARAW.

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH.

ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood !

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or

come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains

fall, —

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and

strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through mani

fold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce

known,

Through forests I 'll follow, and where the sea

flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies

of foes.

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are

woven in

one,

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth,

and one hand ?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and

strife;

Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ;
I am king of the household, and thou art its

queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one

breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

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