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He is not John the gardener,
Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Our home used to be in a hut in the dear old Camp, with lots of bands and trumpets and bugles and Dead Marches, and three times a day there was a gun,
I always was a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
The whispering water rocks the reeds,
When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them there, but there's only one of me,
If I should wish hereafter that your heart
The Spring's bright tints no more are seen,
Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
Long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten,
Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to remember the word,
Hush-a-by, Baby! Your baby, Mamma,
My love she sent a flower to me
A GIRL'S SONG.
A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE.
"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head,
Father is building a new house, but I've had one given to me for my own;
How many years ago, love,
They've taken the cosy bed away
Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate,
Life is full of trouble,
Maiden with the gipsy look,
Fritz and I are not brother and sister, but we're next-door neighbours; for we both live next door.
You ask me what--since we must part--
The night is dark, and yet it is not quite:
The winter is gone; and at first Jack and I were sad,
Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?
I would not have you wake for me,
What time I left my native land,
Translated from the Danish of Oehlenschläger.
By Fedor Flinzer. Freely translated by J.H. Ewing.
Found in the garden--dead in his beauty.
Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday
A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT.
Over wastes of blasted heather,
One of a hundred little rills--
A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS.
It was on such a night as this,
There once was a Willow, and he was very old,
A TALE WITH A STING IN IT.
We meant to be very kind,
A TALE OF THE HEDGE.
Come down! come down! O Holy Ghost!
I'm weary waiting here,