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He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;
For death had illumined the land of sleep,

And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!



THERE was a time when I could feel

All passion's hopes and fears,
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,

By smiles, and sighs, and tears!
The days are gone ; no more, no more,

The cruel fates allow;
And though I'm hardly twenty-four,
I'm not a lover now!
Lady, the mist is on my sight;

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight

I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,

I laugh at girls and boys ;
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,

And very fond of noise :
I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone !

I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,

I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie;
I cannot kneel as once I did ;

I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid-

I'm not a lover now!



I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant ;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,

And nieces for their aunt :
I fly from folly, though it flows

From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose-

I'm not a lover now !
The Muse's steed is very fleet-

I'd rather ride my mare ;
The Poet hunts a quaint conceito

I'd rather hunt a hare ;
I've learnt to utter yours and you,

Instead of thine and thou;
And, oh ! I can't endure a Blue

I'm not a lover now!
I don't encourage idle dreams

Of poison or of ropes ;
I cannot dine on airy schemes,

I cannot sup on hopes ;
New milk, I own, is very fine,

Just foaming from the cow ;
But yet, I want my pint of wine-

I'm not a lover now !
When Laura sings young hearts away,

I'm deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep ;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,

I never danoe I vow;
“ Too hot to kick one's heels about"

I'm not a lover now!
I'm busy now with state affairs,

The shipping and the docks;
I ask the price of railroad shares,

I watch the turns of stocks :
And this is life ! no verdure blooms

Upon the withered bough.
I save a fortune in persumos-

I'm not a lover now !



I may be, yet, what others are,

A boudoir's babbling fool;
The flattered star of bench or bar,

A party's chief or tool.
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,

The palace or the plough,
My heart and lute are broken here-
I'm not a lover now !
Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight-
I'm not a lover now!


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My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
And I maun drink water while you may drink wine ;
But we baith ha'e a leal heart unspotted to shaw :
Sae gi’e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

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Ye would scorn to do falsely by woman or man;
I haud by the right, aye, as well as I can;
We are ane in our joys, our affections an'a';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are krethren a'.

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SAE put him on a snow-white shroud,

A chaplet on his head ;
And gathered early primroses

To scatter o'er the dead.
She laid him in his little grave-

'Twas hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,

And everything was fair.
She had lost many children-now

The last of them was gone ;
And day and night she sat and wept

Beside the funeral stone.
One midnight while her constant tears

Were falling with the dew,
She heard a voice, and lo! her child

Stood by her weeping, too.
His shroud was damp, his face was white.

He said, “I cannot sleep,
Your tears have made my shroud so wet :

Oh, mother, do not weep!”



()h ! love is strong! the mother's heart

Was filled with tender fears ;
Oh ! love is strong! and for her child

Her grief restrained its tears.
One eve a light shone round her bed,

And there she saw him stand-
Her infant, in his little shroud,

A taper in his hand.
“Lo! mother, see my shroud is dry,

And I can sleep once more !”
And beautiful the parting smile

The little infant wore.
And down within the silent grave

He laid his weary head;
And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.
The mother went her household ways;

Again she knelt in prayer,
And only asked of heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.

L. E. Landon


Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen “ Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face:
Some are good and let dearly, while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear and so bad they are best let alone.
Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat he appeared like a tun,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.
He entered his room, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

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