THE MILKMAID.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. A cross the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,— A maid I know,—and March winds blow Her hair across her face;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown and soft as down (To those who see it near!)— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. What has she not that they have got,— The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her ’kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June, My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,— Her laugh is like a tune;— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear! O tall Lent-lilies, flame! There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

ALFRED DOMETT.

1811-1887.

A GLEE FOR WINTER. H ence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow! Well-a-day! in rain and snow What will keep one’s heart aglow? Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among! Groups of friends, so old and true, That they seem our kinsmen too! These all merry all together, Charm away chill Winter weather! What will kill this dull old fellow? Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow! Dear old songs for ever new; Some true love, and laughter too; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done! Music—friends so true and tried— Whispered love by warm fireside— Mirth at all times all together— Make sweet May of Winter weather!
A KISS.
SAPPHO TO PHAON. I. S weet mouth! O let me take One draught from that delicious cup! The hot Sahara-thirst to slake That burns me up! II. Sweet breath!—all flowers that are, Within that darling frame must bloom; My heart revives so at the rare Divine perfume! III. —Nay, ’t is a dear deceit, A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine; Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, That fragrance fine! IV. I drank—the drink betrayed me Into a madder, fiercer fever; The scent of those love-blossoms made me More faint than ever! V. Yet though quick death it were That rich heart-vintage I must drain, And quaff that hidden garden’s air, Again—again!