For this device:

And at the wedding such a pair
Each dance is taken for a prayer,

Each song a sacrifice.
You should stay longer if we durst;
Away! Alas! that he that first
Gave Time wild wings to fly away,
Has now no power to make him stay.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

MARY DONNELLY.

On! 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 in a shower,

Can 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 in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart,

your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower of womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

Oh might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

Oh might we live together in a cottage mean and small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! ALLINGHAM.

The air, dear Goddess, sighs for thee,
The light-heart brooks arise for thee,
And the poppies red
On their wistful bed

Turn up their dark blue eyes for thee.

Laugh out in the loose green jerkin
That's fit for a Goddess to work in,
With shoulders brown,
And the wheaten crown
About thy temples perking.

And with thee came Stout Heart in, And Toil that sleeps his cart in, Brown Exercise,

The ruddy and wise,

His bathed forelocks parting.

And Dancing too, that's lither

Than willow or birch, drop hither, To thread the place

With a finishing grace,

And carry our smooth eyes with her. LEIGH HUNT.

ARABY'S DAUGHTER.

FAREWELL

- farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)

No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water,

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till love's witchery came,

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing,

And hushed all its music, and withered its frame.

But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands,

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom

Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,

With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still when the merry date-season is burning,

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,

The happiest there, from their pastime returning,

At sunset, still weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair, for some festival day,

Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses,

She mournfully turns from her mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee;

Though tyrants watch over her

tears as they start;

Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee,

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

JEANIE MORRISON.

O DEAR, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my
path,

And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As Memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time!-twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,

Remembered evermair.