II.

Through the woods we walk together; His soft footsteps rustle nigh me; To shield an unregarded head, He hath built a winter shed; And all night in rainy weather, I hear his gentle breathings by me.

[Decoration]

CHARLES DICKENS.

1812-1870.

_THE IVY GREEN._

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend, the huge Oak tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

[Decoration]

AUSTIN DOBSON.

1840.

_THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S._

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.

The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's They are so fine and fair, You 'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is scarce so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's They 're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's, With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!" They season all their speeches (They come of noble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are sweet as, after rain-drops, The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's, They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you--for seconds, They frown on you--for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide Is always true--and mine.

My Phyllida, my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida--for Phyllida Is all the world to me!

[Decoration]

_THE MILKMAID._

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

Across 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.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

ALFRED DOMETT.

1811-1887.

_A GLEE FOR WINTER._

Hence, 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!

[Decoration]

_A KISS._

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

Sweet mouth! O let me take One draught from that delicious cup! The hot Sahara-thirst to slake That burns me up!

Sweet breath!--all flowers that are, Within that darling frame must bloom; My heart revives so at the rare Divine perfume!

--Nay, 't is a dear deceit, A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine; Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, That fragrance fine!

I drank--the drink betrayed me Into a madder, fiercer fever; The scent of those love-blossoms made me More faint than ever!