_The Beautiful Stranger_

I cannot know what country owns thee now, With France's forest lilies on thy brow.

When England knew thee thou wert pa.s.sing fair; I never knew a foreign face so rare.

The world of waters rolls and rushes bye, Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie.

But surely France must be a pleasant place That greets the stranger with so fair a face; The English maiden blushes down the dance, But few can equal the fair maid of France.

I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine, And the last song I ever wrote is thine.

Thy country's honour on thy face attends; Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.

_The Tramp_

He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song) The stolen turnip as he goes along; And hops along and heeds with careless eye The pa.s.sing crowded stage coach reeling bye.

He talks to none but wends his silent way, And finds a hovel at the close of day, Or under any hedge his house is made.

He has no calling and he owns no trade.

An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head, A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed.

He knows a lawless law that claims no kin But meet and plunder on and feel no sin-- No matter where they go or where they dwell They dally with the winds and laugh at h.e.l.l.

_Farmer's Boy_

He waits all day beside his little flock And asks the pa.s.sing stranger what's o'clock, But those who often pa.s.s his daily tasks Look at their watch and tell before he asks.

He mutters stories to himself and lies Where the thick hedge the warmest house supplies, And when he hears the hunters far and wide He climbs the highest tree to see them ride-- He climbs till all the fields are blea and bare And makes the old crow's nest an easy chair.

And soon his sheep are got in other grounds-- He hastens down and fears his master come, He stops the gap and keeps them all in bounds And tends them closely till it's time for home.

_Braggart_

With careful step to keep his balance up He reels on warily along the street, Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop Mutters an angry look at all he meets.

b.u.mptious and vain and proud he shoulders up And would be something if he knew but how; To any man on earth he will not stoop But cracks of work, of horses and of plough.

Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs, He never heeds the insult loud that laughs: With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,-- Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride.

And calls him "drunken beast" and runs away-- King to himself and fool to all beside.

_Sunday Dip_

The morning road is thronged with merry boys Who seek the water for their Sunday joys; They run to seek the shallow pit, and wade And dance about the water in the shade.

The boldest ventures first and dashes in, And others go and follow to the chin, And duck about, and try to lose their fears, And laugh to hear the thunder in their ears.

They bundle up the rushes for a boat And try across the deepest place to float: Beneath the willow trees they ride and stoop-- The awkward load will scarcely bear them up.

Without their aid the others float away, And play about the water half the day.

_Merry Maid_

Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat, She frowns offended when they call her fat-- Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place, And all can know she wears a pretty face.

But still she never heeds what praise can say, But does the work, and oft runs out to play, To run about the yard and ramp and noise And spring the mop upon the servant boys.

When old hens noise and cackle every where She hurries eager if the eggs are dear, And runs to seek them when they lay away To get them ready for the market day.

She gambols with the men and laughs aloud And only quarrels when they call her proud.

_Scandal_

She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes To hear the news and tell the news she knows; She talks of s.l.u.ts, marks each unmended gown, Her self the dirtiest s.l.u.t in all the town.

She stands with eager haste at slander's tale, And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale.

Excuse is ready at the biggest lie-- She only heard it and it pa.s.ses bye.

The very cat looks up and knows her face And hastens to the chair to get the place; When once set down she never goes away, Till tales are done and talk has nought to say.

She goes from house to house the village oer, Her slander bothers everybody's door.

_Quail's Nest_

I wandered out one rainy day And heard a bird with merry joys Cry "wet my foot" for half the way; I stood and wondered at the noise,

When from my foot a bird did flee-- The rain flew bouncing from her breast I wondered what the bird could be, And almost trampled on her nest.

The nest was full of eggs and round-- I met a shepherd in the vales, And stood to tell him what I found.

He knew and said it was a quail's,

For he himself the nest had found, Among the wheat and on the green, When going on his daily round, With eggs as many as fifteen.

Among the stranger birds they feed, Their summer flight is short and low; There's very few know where they breed, And scarcely any where they go.

_Market Day_

With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse, The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair.

Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground With urging bark and hurries at his heels.

His hat slouched down, and great coat b.u.t.toned close Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face Red as the morning sun, he takes his round And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack, He drinks success to corn in language hoa.r.s.e, And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.

_Stonepit_

The pa.s.sing traveller with wonder sees A deep and ancient stonepit full of trees; So deep and very deep the place has been, The church might stand within and not be seen.

The pa.s.sing stranger oft with wonder stops And thinks he een could walk upon their tops, And often stoops to see the busy crow, And stands above and sees the eggs below; And while the wild horse gives its head a toss, The squirrel dances up and runs across.

The boy that stands and kills the black nosed bee Dares down as soon as magpies' nests are found, And wonders when he climbs the highest tree To find it reaches scarce above the ground.

_"The La.s.s With The Delicate Air"_

Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy, She drops her head at every pa.s.ser bye.

Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets And turns away from every smile she meets.

The forward clown has many things to say And holds her by the gown to make her stay, The picture of good health she goes along, Hale as the morn and happy as her song.

Yet there is one who never feels a fear To whisper pleasing fancies in her ear; Yet een from him she shuns a rude embrace, And stooping holds her hands before her face,-- She even shuns and fears the bolder wind, And holds her shawl, and often looks behind.

_The Lout_

For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.

Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak, Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek; For none can pa.s.s him but his witless grace Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face.