seen at the manor. Almost every one within the walls had, at one time or other, been haunted by the figure; but no one had possessed sufficient presence of mind either to speak to it, or follow where it led. Though all the neighbourhood was now quiet, the place never looked so pleasant as before; and, since the family forsook it for another residence, the country people will not pass it after sunset, but in pairs; and the bravest of the two is fond to whistle, that he may keep up the courage of his comrade. "Now, children, my tale is ended, and you must go to sleep."

"Jacky and Philip are sleeping already," said George, "but is there no more of it? Mind you now, I wish to hear it all."

"Upon my word there is no more of it, George. Go to sleep now, like a dear boy."

"Is your seam not finished yet, nurse. The tailor can make new clothes for Jacky, and Philip, and myself, all in a week; but you women are sewing, sewing from one year's end to the other. Pray who wears them all?"

"Now, George, you just want to teaze me. Lie still, and sleep like your brothers."

"Sing me a song, then; some old thing or other. Not the Babes in the Wood-nor Barbara Allen-nor the Bloody Garland-nor any of that sort; in case I never sleep a wink to-night."

"Well then, any thing you please. What wouldn't one do for a quiet life! any thing to please you, child; will sing you one that-you never heard before."

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass,
Sing heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho;
And by a young shepherd lad did pass,
In the summer morning so early;
Said he, "my lass will you go with me,
My cot to keep, and my bride to be,
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?"

"Oh! no, no, no,

"the maiden said,

Sing heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho; And bashfully turned aside her head, On the summer morning so early; "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green vale, I dare not list to any such tale,

For I love my kind mother rarely."

The shepherd took her lily-white hand,
Sing heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho;
And on her beauty did gazing stand,

On that summer morning so early.
"Thy mother I ask thee not to leave
Alone in her frail old age to grieve,
But my home can hold us all, believe,
Will that not please thee fairly?”

“Oh! no, no, no, I am all too young,
Sing heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho;

I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early."-

But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go-but she never went,
And at length she fondly blushed consent;
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.

So may every maiden learn by this,
Sing heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho,—

George, are you sleeping? Softly! no answer! that's well. Good night to you all, teazing brats, you would have plagued Job out of his wits;-and now for my bumper of Cognac !

THE MAY-FLOWERS OF LIFE:

Suggested by the Author's having found a branch of May in a volume of Burns' Poems, which had been deposited there, by a Friend, several years before.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I.

MEMORIAL frail of youthful years,
Of hopes as wild and bright as they,
Thy faint, sweet perfume wakens tears
I may not, cannot wish away!
Thy withered leaves are as a spell

To bring the sainted past before me;
And long-lost visions, loved too well,
In all their truth restore me.

II.

Cold is her hand who placed thee here,
Thou record sweet of Love and Spring,
Ere life's May-flowers, like thee, grew sere,
Or Hope had waved her parting wing:

When boyhood's burning dreams were mine,
And fancy's magic circlet crowned me;
And love, when love is half divine,
Spread its enchantments 'round me!

III.

How can I e'er forget the hour

When thou wert glowing on her breast,
Fresh from the dewy hawthorn bower
That looked upon the golden west!
She snatched thee from thy sacred shrine,-

A brighter fate she scarce could doom thee,--
And bade a Poet's wreath be thine,-

His deathless page entomb thee!

IV.

That hour is past,-those dreams are fled,-
Ties, sweeter, holier, bind me now;
And, if life's first May-flowers are dead,
Its summer garland wreathes my brow!
Sleep on, sleep on !—I would but gaze
A moment on thy faded bloom;
Heave one wild sigh to other days,

Then close thy hallowed tomb!

August 20, 1825.