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The jolly old sun he shall hear us sing, Till this whirligig world to its centre doth ring,

And we won't go home till morning!

Then, there's the stars—those twinkling dogs,

Perch'd up there 'mid the clouds and the fogs,

(Bless 'em, they're always a-winking!) Among them doubt,

we see, without any

Some of 'em sometimes tumble aboutOh, they're sly little chaps, I'm thinking!

Sc here we are as merry as grigs, And here we'll stay, an' it pleases the pigs,

Time and his dry glass scorning. The queer little stars they shall hear us sing,

Till this whirlgig world to its centre doth ring,

And we won't go home till morning!

Then, the lady-moon creeping at night, Mincing along her way so bright,

While the dew on the mountain is sleeping;

But the funny old maid, 'twixt me and you,

She's marvellous fond o' the mountaindew,

And sips it when nobody's peeping. Since the sun and the moon and the stars agree

There's nothing like fun and jollity,

Such opinions we won't be scorning, But here we'll sit as merry as grigs, And here we'll stay, an' it please the

pigs,

And we woN'T go home till morning!

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes my childhood,

When fond recollection recalls them to view

The orchard, the meadow, the deeptangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well.

The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket

The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,

I found it the source of an exquisite

pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield;

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell,

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—

~

The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound

bucket

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the cord, it inclined to my lips;

Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that
Jupiter sips.

And now far removed from the loved

situation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy revisits my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in his well—

The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket

The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well.

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LONG TIME AGO.

On the lake were drooped the willow Long time ago!

Where the rock threw back the billow
Brighter than snow-

Dwelt a maid beloved and cherished
By high and low;
But with autumn's leaf she perished,
Long time ago!

Rock, and tree, and flowing water,
Long time ago,—

Bird, and bee, and blossom taught her
Love's spell to know-

While to my fond words she listened,
Murmuring low—

Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened,
Long time ago!

Mingled were our hearts forever'
Long time ago!

Can I now forget her?-never!
No, lost one, no!

To her grave these tears are given-—
Ever to flow!

She's the star I missed from heave
Long time ago!

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