WAITING FOR THE MAY. AH! my heart is weary waiting, Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, Scent the dewy way. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing to escape from study Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for their sure returning When the summer-beams are burning Hopes and flowers that dead or dying All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Ah! Sighing for the May. my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May Throbbing for the seaside billows, Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May. Spring goes by with wasted warnings— Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May! DENNIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." "'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?" There's a form at the casement, the form of her true love, And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fin gers, Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand mother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower and slower-and slower the wheel swings; Lower-and lower-and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. AN UNTIMELY THOUGHT. I WONDER What day of the week- -What a hideous fancy to come Do I like your new dress -pompadour ? Those two rosy boys in the crib |