How to speak to tell my passion? How I used to search your pages Ah, how sweet it was to hand her You, with lines I'd marked when found! And how well I'd understand her When she blushed and frowned. And one day, old book, you wriggled Then when next we met out walking, Ah me! No man could resist her Jones I gave a good sound chaffing; It was after that I lost you, Reverend Samuel still preaches; In his Sunday-school she teaches Mrs. Samuel Jones. W. J. Henderson. THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER- ET all men living on earth take heed, LET For their own soul's sake, to a rhyme well meant; Writ so that he who runs may read We are the folk that a-summering went, Who while the year was young were bentYea, bent on doing this self-same thing Which we have done unto some extent. This is the end of our summering. We are the folk who would fain be freed From wasteful burdens of rate and rentFrom the vampire agents' ravening breed— We are the folk that a-summering went. We hied us forth when the summer was blent With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring, A-seeking the meadows dew besprent This is the end of our summering. For O the waiters that must be fee'd, And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling "gent"; And the youth next door with the ophicleide! We are the folk that a-summering went! Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent, While birds their way to the southward wing, ENVOY Citizens! list to our sore lament— While the landlord's hands to our raiment clingWe are the folk that a-summering went: This is the end of our summering. H. C. Bunner. I INTERESTING ROWED her out on the broad bright sea, The heavens were trying the waves to outshine, With never a cloud to the far sea-line. On the reefs the billows in kisses broke- She spoke of the gulls and the waters green— She spoke of the tides, and the Triton myth; She spoke of her liking lemon on clams; For her face was fair and her eyes were brown, And she was a girl from Boston town. And I rowed and thought-but I never said— "Does Havana tobacco trouble your head?" She talked of alge-she talked of sand— She talked of the ocean-steamer's speed- And at last I spoke, between fright and fret: "Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?” She dropped her eyes on the ocean's blue, Ο THE WAY TO ARCADY H, what's the way to Arcady, Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. |