O tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she fair and young,

very

And yet so wicked, too?

Did Katy love a naughty man,

Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,

Or wet their eyes of blue,

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell

The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings

Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years

Shall hear what Katy did.

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark

Before my morning star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,

By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,—

I cannot choose between the two.

I saw a row of twenty beams;

From every beam a rope was hung,

In every rope a lover swung;
I asked the hue of every eye,

That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue,

And ten accused the darker hue.

I asked a matron, which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed;

She answered, some thought both were fair,-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in, their eyes were blue.

I asked a maiden; back she flung

The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays

I felt as if my hair would blaze;

She liked all eyes but eyes of green;

She looked at me; what could she mean?

Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;

Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake;
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;

And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,

That wears for us the sweetest smile.