I all defied,
And loudly cried
"Come on,
Each one,
Be gay! be gay!—'Tis May! Tis May"
They laughed and shook the head,
And this is what they said,
"Old Skunk, he's drunk."
Still we do love her so,—
Her truth? O, no!
She's like some fancy fickle,
She lands you in a pickle,
You grin and bear,
Maybe you swear
In manner most alarming,
And yet—Sweet May is charming.
Who Cares?
Down in a cellar cottage
In a dark and lonely street,
Was sat a widow and her boy,
With nothing left to eat.
The night was wild and stormy,
The wind howl'd round the door,
And heavy rain drops from above
Kept dripping to the floor.
They had no candle burning,
The fire was long since dead,
A wretched heap of straw was all
They had to call a bed.
They nestled close together,
On the cold and dampy ground,
And as the storm rush'd past them,
They trembled at the sound.
"Mother," the poor boy whispered,
"May I not go again?
I do not heed the wind, mother,
I'm not afraid of rain.
"May I not go and beg, mother,
For you are very ill;
Some one will give me something,
Mother, I'm sure they will?
"Do let me go and try, mother,
You know I won't be long;
I did feel weak and tired, mother,
But now I feel quite strong.