"I hold a man should woo and wed Where'er he wills--should please himself."

"There is the barrier strong," she said, "Of pedigree, and place, and pelf.

"Could one so lowly hope to grace Your home?" Right proud his air and tone: "You're pure of heart and fair of face; Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!"

"Since you so highly think of me"-- Her tears and laughter were at strife-- "You will not mind so much, maybe, That I am Hubert's promised wife."

Pale went the good squire's florid cheek, His wrath flamed out--but Betty stood, Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek, A sight to make a bad man good.

She won on him. "But why this guile-- This secrecy?" His voice was rough.

"We feared," she whispered, with a smile, "You would not think me good enough."

"An April fool am I. Come, come-- My offer stands. As Hubert's wife,"

He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home And brighten up a lonely life."

He kissed her cheek and rode away.

Unbroken was his heart, I wist, For he was thinking of a day-- A day back in youth's rosy mist--

And of a form and of a face.

"My dear, dead love," he whispered low, The while he rode at sober pace, That April fool of long ago.

FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE.

They were a couple well content With what they earned and what they spent, Cared not a whit for style's decree-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

And oh, they loved to talk of Burns-- Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns!

They never wearied of his song, He never sang a note too strong.

One little fault could neither see-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

They loved to read of men who stood And gave for country life and blood, Who held their faith so grand a thing They scorned to yield it to a king.

Ah, proud of such they well might be-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

From neighbors' broils they kept away; No liking for such things had they, And oh, each had a canny mind, And could be deaf, and dumb, and blind.

With words or pence was neither free-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

I would not have you think this pair Went on in weather always fair, For well you know in married life Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife; They couldn't always just agree-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

But near of heart they ever kept, Until at close of life they slept; Just this to say when all was past, They loved each other to the last!

They're loving yet, in heaven, maybe-- For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.

My father, tiller of the soil, Bequeathed them to me with my name.

Fear work? Nay, many times and oft Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands, And these two brown and sinewy hands, Methinks, were never white or soft.

I earn my bread and know its worth, Through days that chill and days that warm, I wrest it with my strong right arm From out the bosom of the earth.

The moneyed man may boast his wealth, The high-born boast his pedigree, But greater far, it seems to me, My heritage of brawn and health.

My sinews strong, my st.u.r.dy frame, My independence free and bold-- Mine is the richest dower, I hold, And ploughman is a n.o.ble name.

Nor think me all uncouth and rough, For, as I turn the furrows o'er, Far clearer than the threshing-floor I see the tender growing stuff.

A lab'rer, I, the long day through; The lonely stretch of field and wood Seem pleasant things to me, and good; The river sings, the heaven's blue

Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill-- Thank G.o.d, I have the eyes to see The beauty and the majesty Of Nature, and the heart to thrill

At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush, The fields of gold that stretch afar, The glimmer of the first pale star That heralds in the evening's hush.

They lie who say that labor makes A brute thing, an insensate clod, Of man, the masterpiece of G.o.d; They lie who say that labor takes

All from us save the l.u.s.t of pelf, Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind, For no man need be deaf or blind Unless he wills it so himself.

This life I live's a goodly thing-- My soul keeps tune to one glad song The while I turn the furrows long-- A ploughman happy as a king.

TWO MONUMENTS.

Two men were born the self-same hour: The one was heir to untold wealth, To pride of birth and love of power; The other's heritage was health.

A st.u.r.dy frame, an honest heart, Of human sympathy a store, A strength and will to do his part, A nature wholesome to the core.

The two grew up to man's estate, And took their places in the strife: One found a sphere both wide and great, One found the toil and stress of life.

Fate is a partial jade, I trow; She threw the rich man gold and frame, The laurel wreath to deck his brow, High place, the mult.i.tude's acclaim.

The common things the other had-- The common hopes to thrill him deep, The common joys to make him glad, The common griefs to make him weep.

No high ambitions fired his breast; The peace of G.o.d, the love of friend, Of wife and child, these seemed the best, These held and swayed him to the end.

The two grew old, and death's clear call Came to them both the self-same day: To him whose name was known to all, To him who walked his lowly way.

Down to his grave the rich man went, With cortege long, with pomp and pride, O'er him was reared a monument That told his virtues far and wide;

Told of his wealth, his lineage high, His statesmanship, his trophies won, How he had filled the public eye-- But empty praise when all was done.

The other found a narrow bed Within G.o.d's acre, peaceful, lone; The throng cared not that he was dead, A man uncultured and unknown.