Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver-green,
And Jeanne, with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
And off, through the orchard closes,
While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,
They scamper, and drop their posies;
But dear little Jeanne takes naught amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,
And I give her all my roses.

MAUD.

LITTLE Maud, my queen!

Oh! the winsome lady!

All the bright midsummer day,
Thrush and black-cap on the spray,

Sing for her so blithe and gay,

In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,

By your troth remember,
You've a poet, all your own,
Keeps for you his sweetest tone,
Singing, not in June alone,

But in bleak December.

Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose singing's best of these?

Little Maud, my queen!

Oh! the winsome lady!

Leaps her lap-dog to and fro,
Fawning-fond her hound doth grow,
When she pats and pets them so,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet loves you still,
Be your humour what it will
Cross or kind, or warm or chill,
June or bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose loving's best of these?

THE PROUDEST LADY.

HE Queen is proud on her throne,

THE

And proud are her Maids so fine,

But the proudest lady that ever was known,

Is a little lady of mine.

And oh! she flouts me, she flouts me!

And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me !

Though I drop on my knee, 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.

It's her sport and pleasure to flout me!

To 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.

When she rides on her nag, away,
By park and road and river,
In a little hat, so janty and gay,

Oh! then she's prouder than ever!
And oh! what faces, what faces!
What petulant, pert grimaces!

Why, the very pony prances and winks,
And tosses his head, and plainly thinks
He may ape her airs and graces.

But 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 purrs,

and pries,

In my puzzled face, with her two great eyes,
And owns she loves me dearly.

Ay, the 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.

Good lack she flouts me, she flouts me!

She spurns, and scorns, and scouts me!

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

And that, say what she will and think what she may, She can't well do without me.

THE BABY'S THOUGHTS.

WHAT'S the Baby thinking of?

Can you guess ? Can you guess?

From between the budding leaves,
Underneath the cottage eaves,

Came an answer, "Yes, yes, yes!"

"In the meadow," chirped the Swallow,
“I was flying, all the day;
I saw Baby in the clover,
Toddling, tumbling, rolling over,

In his merry play;
Hiding in each grassy hollow,

Out of nurse's way.

"Midst the buttercups I saw him ;

He was humming like the bee, And the daisies seemed to draw him, For he crowed to see

All their white and pinky faces,

Starring over the green places,

'Neath the poplar-tree.

And the butterfly that pleased him,

And the May-bloom, out of reach,
And the little breeze that teased him,
He is thinking now of each.
Search his eyes, and you shall see

King-cups, meshed in golden mazes,
And a thousand starry daisies,
And a sunbeam, flashing free,
And a little shifting shadow,

Such as fluttered o'er the meadow,
From the fluttering tree.

Kiss his lip, and taste the rare

Honey-sweetness lingering on it;
Kiss his pretty forehead fair,

May-bloom odours dropped upon it;
And the naughty beeeze also-
Kiss his cheek, and you shall find it
In the rich and rosy glow,

And the freshness left behind it.
On all these doth Baby ponder,
And they wile him forth to wander
Still, through fields of scented clover,
Toddling, tumbling, rolling over;
Hiding in each grassy hollow."

Thus, between the budding leaves,
Underneath the cottage eaves,
Answer made our friend the Swallow.

66

David Gray.

IN THE SHADOWS.

I.

7HOM the gods love die young." The thought is old; And yet it soothed the sweet Athenian mind.

I take it with all pleasure, overbold,

Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclined

By an inherent love for what is fair.

This is the utter poetry of woe,

That the bright-flashing gods should cure despair
By love, and make youth precious here below.