The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.
The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,
And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,
Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 11
The lists were made—the trumpet’s blast
Rang pealing through the air.
My ’squire made lace and rivet fast
And brought my tried destrerre.