"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear!

Then answer this my humble prayer, And oh, a husband give to me!"

Just then the owl from out the tree, In deep ba.s.s tones cried, "Who--who--who!"

"Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who?

Why, any one, good Lord, will do."

_Unknown._

A BIRD IN THE HAND

There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord is not rich enough, The one is too poor, and one is too tall, And one just an inch too short for them all.

"Others pick and choose, and why not we?

We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee.

There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be, And one is deaf, and one cannot see, And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree, These three old maids of Lee.

Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote-- One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf and one cannot see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be.

He may take the one, or the two, or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee.

There are three old maids at Lee; They are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee.

_Frederic E. Weatherly._

THE BELLE OF THE BALL

Years--years ago,--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty,-- Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;-- Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd,--of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a t.i.ttle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the _Sunday Journal_.

My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord lieutenant of the county.

But t.i.tles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and t.i.thes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations?

Black eyes, fair forehead, cl.u.s.tering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an alb.u.m, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an alb.u.m's glories; Paintings of b.u.t.terflies, and Rome, Patterns for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's c.o.c.katoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted.

She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first--the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,--and oh!

How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves-- A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows--and then we parted.

We parted;--months and years roll'd by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh--- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ballroom belle, But only--Mrs. Something Rogers.

_Winthrop Mackworth Praed._

THE RETORT

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew!

"Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said, "_Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you_!"

_George Pope Morris._

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak'

O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk.