GRANNY'S OLD SLIPPER. 213 The dear old farm of childhood! there was me and brother Sam, Little rogues among the apples, little terrors with the jam; But I think I hear dear Granny, with her thin New England lip, Utter curses as she murmurs: "Here, just hand me that theer slip." Now, oh slipper, you are lying When at eve I'm tired and weary, after slippering the kids, And I lean back hot and panting, and I close my worn-out lids, Then I know dear Granny's waiting, and I fancy she will hold A slipper with a golden heel, and maybe silversoled. Yes, I know, oh slipper, slipper, C. F. R. TWO PROPOSALS. Once I loved a pretty maiden, And would fain have made her mine; But with doubt my heart was laden, And I dared not make a sign— For she seemed so far above me, Though her manner was so kind. But like every timid wooer, I resolved to know my fate; Never heart had loved her truer, I must know if 'twas too late. So I wrote: "Beloved, my treasure, Praying for the fullest measure Then I pondered half despairing, TWO PROPOSALS. To prevent my love from sharing Once again I wrote: "Miss Fannie, Hear me, then, and not in vain. But with you to aid and cheer me Kind, and generous, and true : If 'twill bring me nearer you." 215 UNKNOWN. THE BELLE OF THE BALL. Years, years ago,-ere yet my dreams I saw her at a country ball; There, when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing; She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced-oh, heaven, her danc⚫ ing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; THE BELLE OF THE BALL. I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked of politics or prayers, 217 Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frowned; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean, Had fed the parish with her bounty; And lord-lieutenant of the county. |