THE PROUDEST LADY.

THOMAS WEstwood.

HE Queen is proud on her throne,

And proud are her maids so fine;

But the proudest lady that ever was known

Is this little lady of mine.

And oh! she flouts me, she flouts me !

And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me !

Though I drop on my knees, and sue for grace,

And beg and beseech, with the saddest face,

Still ever the same she doubts me.

She is seven by the calendar,

A lily's almost as tall;

But oh! this little lady's by far

The proudest lady of all!

THE PROUDEST LADY.

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It's her sport and pleasure to flout me!

Το spurn and scorn and scout me!

But ah! I've a notion it's naught but play,

And that, say what she will and feign what she may,

She can't well do without me!

For at times, like a pleasant tune,
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June,
And all her pride forsakes her.
Oh! she dances round me so fairly!

Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely!

Oh! she coaxes, and nestles, and peers, and pries,

In my puzzled face with her two great eyes,

And owns she loves me dearly.

LITTLE BELL

(Extract.)

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

IPED
IPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray,

"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name," quoth he.

"What's your name, oh! stop and straight unfold,

Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold.”

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,

Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks. "Bonny bird," quoth she,

"Sing me your best song, before I go."

"Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell," said he.

LITTLE BELL.

And the blackbird piped-you never heard

Half so gay a song from any bird;

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,

All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while that bonny bird did pour
His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er,
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the brown bright eyes.

grow,

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LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

[Extract.]

N. P. WILLIS.

HEY may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine,

Of nature bewitchingly simple,

And milkmaids half divine;

They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!

True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease;

And true love has an eye for a dinner,

And starves beneath shady trees.