For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee.

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud! show me the least of her traces. Treasure my lady's lightest footfall: Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces, Roses, you are not so fair after all!

ROBERT BROWNING.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind ;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this hath done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

EDMUND WALLER.

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening!

Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dum

blane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessic, the Flower o' Dumblane.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

Ir is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear;
For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

O, SAW YE THE LASS?

O, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een?
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen;
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween;
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green.
The home of my love is below in the valley,
Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee;
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen
Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een.

When night overshadows her cot in the glen,
She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again;
And when the moon shines on the valley so green,
I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een.
As the dove that has wandered away from his nest
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best,
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene,
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een,

RICHARD RYAN,

By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace; An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rockén as the win' da blow, While she da sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night.

An' dere at evemen I da goo,

A-hoppén auver ghiates an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we da slyly catch A chat, an hour upon the stratch, An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch, In the stillness o' the night.

An' zometimes she da goo to zome

Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace,
An' I da get a clue to triace
Her out, an' goo to zee her huome

An' I da wish a vield a mile,
As she da sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

WILLIAM BARNES.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.

DORSET DIALECT.

Ov all the housen o' the pliace

Ther 's oone wher I da like to call,