When

you called to me my name,
Then again

When I heard your single cry
In the lane,

All the sound was as the "sweet"
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat
After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,'Twas absurd,

But it seemed no human note
That I heard;

For your strain had all the trills,
All the little shakes and stills,
Of the over-song that rills
From a bird.

You have just their eager, quick
Airs de tête,

All their flush and fever-heat
When elate;

Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck
When she gives a little peck
To her mate.

When you left me, only now,
In that furred,

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred

Just to catch you, O my sweet,
By the bodice trim and neat,-
Just to feel
your heart-a-beat,

Like a bird.

Yet alas! Love's light you deign
But to wear

As the dew upon your plumes,
And you care

Not a whit for rest or hush;
But the leaves, the lyric gush,
And the wing-power, and the rush
Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, sweet,
For a day,

Lest I lose you in a flash,

As I may;

Did I tell you tender things,

You would shake your sudden wings;-
You would start from him who sings,
And away.

Austin Dobson.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS

WHE

HEN Spring comes laughing
By vale and hill,
By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,
Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of Speedwell,-
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,
Full-leaved and strong,
And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,-
Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,-
And my love's lips.

When Autumn scatters
The leaves again,
And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice;

Sing rounds of reapers,-
And my Love's voice.

But when comes winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,Sing first sad going

Of friends that part;

Then sing glad meeting,

And my Love's heart.

Austin Dobson.

IN TOWN

"The blue fly sung in the pane."-TENNYSON.

TOIL

OILING in Town now is "horrid"
(There is that woman again!)—
June in the zenith is torrid,

Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again:

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!” Thought gets dry in the brain; Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"

Oh for the green of a lane!— Ink gets dry in the bottle; "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane,

Where one might lie and be lazy! "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy,
Careless of Town and all in it!-

Bluebottles drive me crazy:

I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it,

With some one to soothe and to still you, I shall go mad in a minute,

Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still

As only one's feminine kin do,— Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:

you,

There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!There now! I've broken the window! Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,
To dash one with eau de Cologne;—
Bluebottle's off and away,

And why should I stay here alone?

To dash one with eau de Cologne,

All over one's eminent forehead; And why should I stay here alone? Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

Austin Dobson.