Begin," says Harry, "Ay, ay," says Mary; Let's lead up Paddington-pound "Oh, no," says Hugh, "Oh, no," says Sue, Let's dance St. Ledger round; His hat off to his lass; And every maid did curtsey, curtsey, "You're out," says Nick, "For the fiddler play'd it wrong;" "And so," says Hugh, "And so says every one;" The fiddler then began To play it o'er again, And every maid did foot it, foot it, Foot it unto the men. "Let's kiss," says Fan, "Ay, ay," says Nan, And so says every she; "How many?" says Nat, "For that's a maiden's fee !" But instead of kisses three, They gave them half a score; The men, then, out of kindness, kind ness, Gave 'em as many more. Then, after an hour, They went to a bower, To play for ale and cake, And kisses, too, Being in the cue, For the lasses held the stake: To quarrel with the men, And told 'em to take their kisses back, Oh, thus they all stay'd From morning until night. They'd pay him for his play, And every one paid twopence, two pence, Twopence, and toddled away. "Good night," says Bess, "Good night," says Jess, "Good night," says Harry to Holl; "Good night," says Hugh, "Good night," says Sue, "Good night," says Nimble Nell; Some ran, some walk'd, some stay'd, Some tarried by the way, And bound themselves by kisses twelve, To meet next holiday! THE HEART BOW'D DOWN BY THE heart bow'd down by weight of woe, To weakest hope will cling; To thought and impulse while they flow, That can no comfort bring, With those exciting scenes will blend The mind will in its worst despair, On moments of delight that were, To long departed years extend KATHLEEN O'MORE. Mr love, still I think that I see her once more, But alas! she has left me her loss to deplore; My own little Kathleen, Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new; So pretty was Kathleen, She milk'd the dun cow that ne'er offer'd to stir, Though wicked it was, it was gentle to her, So kind was my Kathleen, She sat at the door one cold afternoon, the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, Cold was the night breeze that sigh'd round her bower, It chill'd my poor Kathleen, she droop'd from that hour, And I lost my poor Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More! The bird of all birds that I love the best, Is the robin, that in the church-yard builds his nest, For he seems to watch Kathleen, |