Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe;"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his tufted grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze :
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight Little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood Sleeping in the underwood: Honour to Maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood clan!

Though their days have hurried by,

Let us two a burden try.

NOVEMBER

HARTLEY COLERIDGE

THE mellow year is hasting to its close;

The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the moon's hoar crystal quaintly glass'd, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows: In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine, The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine.

THE PARROT A TRUE STORY

A

THOMAS CAMPBELL

PARROT, from the Spanish main,

Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won

His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,.
He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

But, petted in our climate cold,

He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold, His wings grew gray.

At last, when, blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come

To Mulla's shore;

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied;
Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.

POOR DOG TRAY

THOMAS CAMPBELL

N the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was

nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)
"Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away:
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure,
And he constantly loved me although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,

How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,

And he lick'd me for kindness

my old dog Tray.