They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they

say,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, - but that can never be ;

They say his heart is breaking, mother, but what is that to me?

There's many a bolder lad 'll woo me any summer day,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And
you 'll be there too, mother, to see me made the
Queen;

For the shepherd lads on every side 'll come from far away,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint, sweet cuckoo-flowers,

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;

There will not be a drop o' rain the whole of the livelong day,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the

hill,

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'll merrily glance and play,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,

To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the blithe New Year;

To-morrow 'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

IF

NEW YEAR'S EVE. - Tennyson.

If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year; It is the last New Year that I shall ever see,

Then ye may lay me low in the mould, and think no

more o' me.

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;

And the New Year's coming up, mother, but I shall

never see

The May upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day!

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen o' May;

And we danced about the May-pole, and in the hazle

copse,

Till Charles's-wain* came out above the tall, white chimney-tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane;

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again;

I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high;

I long to see a flower so, before the day I die.

The building rook'll caw from the windy, tall elmtree,

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea; And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement and upon that grave o' mine,

In the early, early morning, the summer sun 'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world

is still.

*A constellation in the heavens.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waving light,

Ye'll never see me more in the long, gray fields at night;

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool.

Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthornshade,

And

ye 'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid;

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,

With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but ye 'll forgive me

now;

Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and

brow; Nay,—nay, be wild,

Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my restingplace;

Though ye 'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;

Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what

ye say,

And be often and often with you, when ye think I'm

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,

And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door,

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow

ing green;

She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.

She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more;

But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set

About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn;

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. Wordsworth.

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.