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"Blankets!" quo' he.

"Ay, blankets," quo' she.

"Far ha'e I ridden,

And meikle ha'e I seen;

But buttons upon blankets Saw I never nane!"

Ben went our gude-man,
And ben went he;

And there he spied a sturdy man,
Whaur uae man should be.

"How cam' this man here?

How can this be?

How cam' this man here,
Without the leave o' me?"

"A man!" quo' she.

"Ay, a doited man," quo' he. "Puir blind body!

And blinder mat ye be! It's a new milking-maid My minnie sent to me." "A maid!" quo' he. "Ay, a maid," quo' she. "Far ha'e I ridden,

And meikle ha'e I seen;

But lang-bearded milking-maids
Saw I never nane!"

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"Haud your tongue, kind sir," she said,

"And do not banter sae.

Oh, why will ye add affliction

Unto a lover's wae?

For nae man has dune me wrang," she said, "Nor left me here alane;

And nane has kissed my lovely lips,

That I ca' Hazelgreen."

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladye?
Why weep ye by the tide?
How blythe and happy micht he be
Gets you to be his bride!

Gets you to be his bride, fair maid,
And him I'll no bemean;

But when I tak' my words again,Whom ca' ye Hazelgreen?

"What like a man was Hazelgreen? Will ye show him to me?" "He is a comely, proper youth

I in my days did see;

His shoulders broad, his armis lang,

He's comely to be seen:"

And aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazelgreen.

"If ye'll forsake this Hazelgreen, And go along wi' me,

I'll wed ye to my eldest son—

Make you a lady free."

"It's for to wed your eldest son

I am a maid o'er mean; I'd rather stay at hame," she says, "And dee for Hazelgreen."

Then he's ta'en ont a siller kaim,
Kaimed down her yellow hair,
And lookit in a diamond bricht,
To see if she were fair.

"My girl, ye do all maids surpass

That ever I ha'e seen;

Cheer up your heart, my lovely lassForget young Hazelgreen."

"Young Hazelgreen he is my love, And evermair shall be;

I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen

For a' the gowd ye'll gie."

But aye she sighed, and said, "Alas!” And made a piteous mean;

And aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazelgreen.

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Then forth he came young Hazelgreen,
To welcome his father free:
"You're welcome here, my father dear,
An' a' your companie."

But when he looked o'er his shoulder,

A licht laugh then ga'e he; Says, "If I getna this ladye,

It's for her I maun dee.

"I must confess this is the maid I ance saw in a dream, A-walking thro' a pleasant shade,

As she had been a queen. And for her sake I vowed a vow I ne'er would wed but she;

1 Purchased.

I'll lay me down and dee."

"Now haud your tongue, young Hazelgreen;

Let a' your folly be:

If ye be sick for that ladye,

She's thrice as sick for thee.

She's thrice as sick for thee, my sou,

As bitter doth complean;

And a' she wants to heal her waes Is Jock o' Hazelgreen."

He's ta'en her in his armis twa,
Led her thro' bower and ha':
"Cheer up your heart, my dearest May,
Ye're ladye o'er them a'.

The morn shall be our bridal day,

The nicht's our bridal e'en;

Ye sall nae mair ha'e cause to mean
For Jock o' Hazelgreen."

LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE.
ANONYMOUS.

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart;

For those may fail or turn to ill,
So thon and I shall sever:
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why.
So hast thou the same reason still
To dote upon me ever.

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?

ANONYMOUS.

From a half-sheet song, with the music, printed about the year 1710. This has been called General Wolfe's song, and is said to have been sung by him the night before the battle of Quebec.

How stands the glass around?
For shame! ye take no care, my boys,

How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound;
The trumpets sound!

The colors flying are, my boys,

To fight, kill, or wound.

May we still be found

Content with our hard fare, my boys,

On the cold ground.

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Here, good fellow, I drink to thee!
(Pardonnez moi, je vous en prie!)
To all good fellows, wherever they be,
With never a penny of monie!

And he that will not pledge me this (Pardonnez moi, je vous en prie!) Pays for the shot, whatever it is, With never a penny of monie.

Charge it again, boy, charge it again,
(Pardonnez moi, je vous en prie!)
As long as there is any ink in thy pen,
With never a penny of monie.

Henry Carey.

Carey (about 1700-1743) was a natural son of George Suille, Marquis of Halifax, from whom and from his family he received a handsome annuity to the time of is unhappy death by his own hand. He was a musician ty profession, and composed several songs, dramas, and lesques. His "Sally in our Alley" was highly comnded by Addison. Carey had been watching an apprentice and his betrothed in Vauxhall enjoying their Aes and ale, when he came home and wrote the song. Elund Kean, the actor, was a descendant of Carey. The composition of "God save the King" has been med for Carey; but it was probably anterior to his

dy.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em :

But sure such folks could ne'er beget

So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely;

My master comes like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely : But let him bang his bellyful,

I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day-
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blaméd Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named;

I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all
Make game of me and Sally;
And, but for her, I'd better be

A slave and row a galley;
But when my seven long years are out,
Oh then I'll marry Sally,-

Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley.

James Thomson.

The son of a Scotch minister, Thomson (1700-1748) was born at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, Scotland. He completed his education at the University of Edinburgh, where in 1719 he was admitted as a student of divinity. The professor gave him the 104th Psalm to paraphrase, and he did it in so poetical a way that he was admonished to curb his imagination if he wished to be useful

in the ministry. Thereupon he resolved to try his fortune as an author. His father having died, James went to London, where he had his pocket picked of a handkerchief containing his letters of introduction. Finding himself without money or friends, he fell back on his manuscript of "Winter," which he sold to Mr. Millar for three guineas, and it was published in 1726. It soon raised up friends for him, among them Pope, who revised and corrected several passages in his verse. "Winter" was succeeded by "Summer" in 1727; "Spring" in 1728; and "Autumn" in 1730. Thomson wrote "Sophonisba," a tragedy; also "Agamemnon," and "Edward and Eleonora," but no one of his dramatic ventures was a success. His "Coriolanus" was not produced till after his death. In 1732 he published his poem of "Liberty," a production now little read.

After suffering somewhat from narrow means, he got a pension of £100 from the Prince of Wales, and was appointed Surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he could perform by proxy, and which brought him £300 a year. Being now in easy circumstances, he retired to a cottage near Richmond Hill, on the Thames, where he wrote his "Castle of Indolence," generally regarded as his masterpiece. It was published in 1748. One day in the August of that year, after a brisk walk, he took a boat at Hammersmith for Kew. On the water he got chilled, neglected the slight cold, became feverish, and in a few days departed this life in his forty-eighth year.

As a man, Thomson was generous, affable, and amiable. His chief fault was indolence, of which he was fully aware. As a poet, he was remarkable for purity of lan guage and thought; and the highest eulogy that could be pronounced upon a man's writings was Lord Lyttel ton's assertion that Thomson's contain

"No line which, dying, he could wish to blot."

It is not to be denied that his cumbrous style, his faded classicalities, and his redundant and somewhat turgid diction have injured him with modern readers; but he was a genuine poet notwithstanding. No better proof of this could be given than the remarkable lines which he wrote at the age of fourteen. This curious fragment was first published in 1841, in a life of Thomson by Allan Cunningham, and is as follows:

"Now I surveyed my native faculties,

And traced my actions to their teeming source;
Now I explored the universal frame,
Gazed nature through, and, with interior light,
Conversed with angels and unbodied saints,
That tread the courts of the Eternal King!
Gladly I would declare in lofty strains
The power of Godhead to the sons of men,
But thought is lost in its immensity:
Imagination wastes its strength in vain,
And fancy tires and turns within itself,
Struck with the amazing depths of Deity!
Ah! my Lord God! in vain a tender youth,
Unskilled in arts of deep philosophy,
Attempts to search the bulky mass of matter,
To trace the rules of motion, and pursue
The phantom Time, too subtle for his grasp :
Yet may I from Thy most apparent works
Form some idea of their wondrous Author."

There are passages in his "Seasons" and his "Castle of Indolence" which are not likely to become obsolete while high art and genuine devotional feeling find a response in the soul. His "Hymn on the Seasons," though at times suggesting a reminiscence of Milton, has been equalled by nothing in the same class that any succeeding poet has produced; and, in saying this, we do not forget Coleridge's "Chamouni," nor the many noble passages in Wordsworth's "Excursion." Το Thomson we owe in no small measure the revival of that enthusiasm for the associations and beauties of external nature which had been absent from English poetry during the predominance of the artificial school.

One of the finest similes in that part of "The Seasons" entitled "Autumn" was supplied by Pope, to whom Thomson had given an interleaved copy of the edition of 1736. Describing Lavinia, Thomson wrote:

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self,
Recluse among the woods; if city dames

Will deign their faith; and thus she went, compelled
By strong necessity, with as serene

And pleased a look as Patience e'er put on,

To glean Palemon's fields."

Pope drew his pen through this description, and substituted the following lines-and so they stand in all the subsequent editions:

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beanty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,

A myrtle rises, far from human eyes,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourished blooming, aud unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia; till at length compelled
By strong necessity's supreme command,

With smiling patience in her looks, she went
To glean Palemon's fields."

"The love of nature," says Coleridge, "seems to have led Thomson to a cheerful religion; and a gloomy religion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one would carry his fellow men along with him into nature; the other flies to nature from his fellow-men. In chastity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below him; yet I still feel the latter to have been the born poet."

THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

FROM "THE SEASONS."

From the moist meadow to the withered hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells and deepens to the cherished eye.
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales;
Where the deer rustle through the twining brake,
And the birds sing concealed. At once arrayed
In all the colors of the flushing year,

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