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"Where's the Didland Junction deed ?" Dauntlessly says KITTY.

"If you doubt my honesty,
Look at my receipt, Sir.'

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Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
Smiling as he meets her.

KITTY at the table sits

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(Whither the old Clerk leads her),
I deliver this," she says,

"As my act and deed, Sir."

When I heard these funny words
Come from lips so pretty,
This, I thought, should surely be
Subject for a ditty.

What! are ladies stagging it?
Sure, the more's the pity;
But I've lost my heart to her,—
Naughty little KITTY.

THE LAST OF MAY.

(IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE IST)

By fate's benevolent award,
Should I survive the day,

I'll drink a bumper with my lord
Upon the last of May.

That I may reach that happy time.

The kindly gods I pray,

For are not ducks and peas in prime
Upon the last of May?

At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then,
My knife and fork shall play;

But better wine and better men

I shall not meet in May.

And though, good friend, with whom I dine, Your honest head is gray,

And, like this grizzled head of mine,

Has seen its last of May;

Yet, with a heart that's ever kind,

A gentle spirit gay,

You've spring perennial in your mind,
And round you make a May!

"AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR."

AH bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was sheltered sure,

The cottage hearth was bright and warm

An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd,

And, as he marked its cheerful glow,
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,

And doubly cold the fallen snow.

They marked him as he onward press'd,
With fainting heart and weary limb ;

Kind voices bade him turn and rest,
And gentle faces welcomed him.

The dawn is up-the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still:
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill !

SONG OF THE VIOLET.

A HUMBLE flower long time I pined
Upon the solitary plain,

And trembled at the angry wind,
And shrunk before the bitter rain.
And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour
A passing wanderer chanced to see,
And, pitying the lonely flower,
To stoop and gather me.

I fear no more the tempest rude,
On dreary heath no more I pine,
But left my cheerless solitude,

To deck the breast of Caroline.
Alas! our days are brief at best,
Nor long, I fear, will mine endure,
Though sheltered here upon a breast
So gentle and so pure.

It draws the fragrance from my leaves
It robs me of my sweetest breath,
And every time it falls and heaves,
It warns me of my coming death.
But one I know would glad forego
All joys of life to be as I ;

An hour to rest on that sweet breast,
And then, contented, die.

FAIRY DAYS.

BESIDE the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee, Of happy fairy days-what tales were told to me! I thought the world was once-all peopled with princesses,

And my heart would beat to hear-their loves and their distresses;

And many a quiet night,-in slumber sweet and deep,

The pretty fairy people—would visit me in sleep.

I saw them in my dreams—come flying east and west,

With wondrous fairy gifts-the new-born babe they bless'd;

One has brought a jewel-and one a crown of gold, And one has brought a curse—but she is wrinkled and old.

The gentle queen turns pale—to hear those words of sin,

But the king he only laughs—and bids the dance begin.

The babe has grown to be-the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green-a hawk upon her

hand,

An ambling palfrey white-a golden robe and

crown:

I've seen her in my dreams-riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh-as she fell into his

snare,

At the little tender creature-who wept and tore her hair!

But ever when it seemed-her need was at the

sorest,

A prince in shining mail-comes prancing through the forest,

A waving ostrich-plume-a buckler burnished bright;

I've seen him in my dreams-good sooth! a gallant knight.

His lips are coral red-beneath a dark mustache; See how he waves his hand-and how his blue eyes flash!

"Come forth, thou Paynim knight !"—he shouts in accents clear.

The giant and the maid-both tremble his voice to hear.

Saint Mary guard him well!-he draws his falchion keen,

The giant and the knight—are fighting on the green.

I see them in my dreams-his blade gives stroke on stroke,

The giant pants and reels-and tumbles like an oak!

With what a blushing grace—he falls upon his knee

And takes the lady's hand- and whispers, "You are free!"

Ah! happy childish tales-of knight and faërie ! I waken from my dreams-but there's ne'er a knight for me;

I waken from my dreams-and wish that I could be

A child by the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee !

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