The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place;

In Pike-street the Capulets reign;

A limonadière is the badge of one race,

Of the other a flask of Champagne.

Now as each the same evening her soirée announces,

What better, he asks, can be done,

Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces,

And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

SONG.

BY MISS ****

AIR: "To ladies' eyes a round, boy,"

THE winds of March are humming

Their parting song, their parting song,

And summer's skies are coming,

MOORE.

And days grow long, and days grow long.

I watch, but not in gladness,

Our garden tree, our garden tree;

It buds, in sober sadness,

Too soon for me, too soon for me.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

'Tis not asleep or idle

That love has been, that love has been;

For many a happy bridal

The

has year

the seen,

year

has seen;

I've done a bridemaid's duty,

At three or four, at three or four;

My best bouquet had beauty,

Its donor more, its donor more.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover :

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

His flowers my bosom shaded

One sunny day, one sunny day;

The next, they fled and faded,

Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet.

In vain, at ball and parties,

I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net;

This waltzing, watching heart is

Unchosen yet, unchosen yet.

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

They tell me there's no hurry

For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring;

And I'm too young to marry:

'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing.

The next spring tides will dash on

My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year;

It puts me in a passion,

Oh dear, oh dear! oh dear, oh dear!

My second winter's over,

Alas! and I, alas! and I

Have no accepted lover:

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

SONG.

FOR THE DRAMA OF "THE SPY."

THE harp of love, when first I heard Its song beneath the moonlight tree, Was echoed by his plighted word,

And ah, how dear its song to me; But wailed the hour will ever be

When to the air the bugle gave, To hush love's gentle minstrelsy, The wild war music of the brave.