'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke:—
"My daddy's Giles the ditcher,
I fetch the water,—and I've broke ...
I've broke my mammy's pitcher!"
THE FAIRY ROSE.
"There are plenty of roses," (the patriarch speaks)
"Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks;
Sweet maiden, rose-laden—enough and to spare,—
Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair."
"O raise not thy hand," cries the maid, "nor suppose
That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose:
The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.
"'Entwine it,' said they, 'with your curls in a braid,
It will blossom in winter—it never will fade;
And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie,
Where you're dying to go—'twill be going to die.'
"And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heighho,'
Dost think I possess not the will to say 'No?'
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee."
The damsel passed on with a confident smile,
The old man extended his walk for awhile;
His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.