"Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, 1 wonder?"

"'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool

on,

And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun?"

There's a form at the casement-the form of her true

love;

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat, longs to go-and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the
other.

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound.
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps- then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower-and slower- and slower the wheel swings;
Lower-and lower- and lower the reel rings.
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and
moving,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.