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She talk'd,- of politics or prayers;

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 matter'd not a tittle,
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.
My mother laugh’d; I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frown'd; but how should gout

Şee any happiness in kneeling ?

She was the daughter of a Dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year

Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents,

And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents,

Oh! what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,

Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand

She made the Catalani jealous;

She touch'd the organ; I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,

Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo,

And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first — the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, - and oh!

How sweetly all her notes were folded !

Our love was like most other loves

A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “Fly Not Yet," upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows — and then we parted.

We parted; — months and years rollid by;

We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;

For in my heart's most secret cell,

There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ballroom belle,
But only – Mrs. Something Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

THE STAMMERING WIFE

When deeply in love with Miss Emily Pryne,
I vowed, if the maiden would only be mine,

I would always endeavor to please her.
She blushed her consent, though the stuttering lass
Said never a word except “You're an ass
An ass

an ass-iduous teaser !”

But when we were married, I found to my ruth, The stammering lady had spoken the truth;

For often, in obvious dudgeon, She'd say if I ventured to give her a jog In the way of reproof — “You're a dog — you're

a dog A dog - a dog-matic curmudgeon!”

And once when I said, “We can hardly afford This extravagant style, with our moderate hoard,”

And hinted we ought to be wiser,
She looked, I assure you, exceedingly blue,
And fretfully cried, “You're a Jew — you're a

Jew -
A very ju-dicious adviser!”

Again, when it happened that, wishing to shirk
Some rather unpleasant and arduous work,

I begged her to go to a neighbor,
She wanted to know why I made such a fuss,
And saucily said, You're a cuss CUSS

You were always ac-cus-tomed to labor!”

cuss

Out of temper at last with the insolent dame,
And feeling that madame was greatly to blame

To scold me instead of caressing,

I mimicked her speech — like a churl that I am
And angrily said, “You're a dam — dam - dam
A dam-age instead of a blessing!”

John Godfrey Saxe

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

O Thou wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven, an' ten to Hell,

A' for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill

They've done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here, before Thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,
A burnin' an'a shinin' light

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation !
I, wha deserv'd most just damnation,

For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,

Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me deep in Hell,
To ģnash my gooms, to weep and wail

In burnin' lakes,
Whare damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,

Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, an example

To a' Thy Aock?

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust,

Vile selfogets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd wi' sin.

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn

That he's sae gifted :
If sae, Thy han’ maun e'en be borne

Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou has a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,

An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace

An' open shame!

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin' arts,

Wi' great and sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts

He steals awa.

An' when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us; -
Curse Thou his basket and his store,

Kail an' potatoes !

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r
Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare

Upo' their heads !
Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare,

For their misdeeds!

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