"Untie the brave old houn' whose voice Bays mellower than a meetin' bell; Loose silk-ear'd Fan for me, my choice 'Mong all the dogs in Beaver Dell;

138

THE FOX-HUNTERS.

They're a pair to make the heart rejoice

An' bound like a buck when hunted well!"

Gray Jasper hears his comrade call,
And, whistling to his eager pack,
Down snatches from the cabin-wall
His rifle, hung on stag-horn rack;
Bids wife farewell till twilight-fall,

And strides away on the red-fox track.

O'er mountain-crest, 'cross lowland vale,
Where Hero hotly leads the chase,
These bluff old woodsmen press the trail,
Close Indian-file, with tireless pace—
Till, hark! the fox-hound's deep-toned hail
Proclaims the game on the home-stretch race.

Athwart the brow of Chester Hill

Scared Reynard, like a blazing sun,
Flies on before his foes until,

O'erleaping rock and ice-bound run,
He draws the aim of Jasper Gill
Along the barrel of his gun.

The ledges ring to the rifle's crack
The fatal bullet whistles past!
A loud "halloo" comes echoing back
To Bearskin Ben, on the rising blast:
A crimson stream bedyes the track; -
And Reynard strikes his flag at last!

"Call in the dogs!" cries Jasper Gill; "The sport is done, the chase is o'er; I've gi'n yon thievin' skulk a pill!

He'll rob my poultry-yard no more.

Come, Ben, let's beat to the cabin sill,
Where the old wife waits us at the door."

Beside a roaring hickory blaze,

With laugh and joke and rustic cheer,

These glib-tongued cronies sound the praise
Of dog and gun in Molly's ear,

Till the old dame's needle almost plays

A tune through her good man's hunting-gear.

G. H. BARNES.

THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

YE living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And, studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate!

Ye country comets, that portend
No war, nor prince's funeral-
Shining unto no other end

Than to presage the grass's fall!

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim
And after foolish fires do stray!

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come;

For she my mind hath so displaced,

That I shall never find my

home.

ANDREW MARVELL

THE WEE GREEN NEUK.

O THE wee green neuk, the sly green neuk,
The wee sly neuk for me!

Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown,
And the wind is fresh and free:

THE WEE GREEN NEUK.

Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o' reeds
Kerve whissles as I lay,

And a douce low voice is murmurin' by,
Through the lee-lang simmer day!

And whare a' things luik as though they lo'ed
To languish in the sun,

And that if they feed the fire they dree
They wadna ae pang were gone;
Whare the lift aboon is still as death,
And bright as life can be;

While the douce low voice says Na, na, na!
But ye mauna luik sae at me!

Whare the lang rank bent is saft and cule,
And freshenin' till the feet;

And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high,
Whare my luve and I mak seat;
And I tease her till she rins, and then
I catch her roun' the tree,

While the poppies shak' their heids and blush:
Let 'em blush till they drap, for me!

O the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk,
The wee sly neuk for me!

Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown,

And the wind is fresh and free!

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

141