JOSEPH SKIPSEY.

1832

A MERRY BEE. A golden bee a-cometh O’er the mere, glassy mere, And a merry tale he hummeth In my ear. How he seized and kist a blossom, From its tree, thorny tree, Plucked and placed in Annie’s bosom, Hums the bee!
THE SONGSTRESS. B ack flies my soul to other years, When thou that charming lay repeatest, When smiles were only chased by tears, Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest. Thy music ends, and where are they? Those golden times by memory cherished? O, Syren, sing no more that lay, Or sing till I like them have perished!
THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE. T he Violet invited my kiss,— I kissed it and called it my bride; “Was ever one slighted like this?” Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side. My heart ever open to grief, To comfort the fair one I turned; “Of fickle ones thou art the chief!” Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned. Then, to end all disputes, I entwined The love-stricken blossoms in one; But that instant their beauty declined, And I wept for the deed I had done!