6

With a rushing of wings the ogres swoops low —
A pitiless foe-

With talons and beak sharp whetteds for prey,
Poor Jack he would slay.

The struggle was fierce. With a jerk and a bound
Jack was free! Then he found,

Underneath a stone wall, a safe shelter all night;
Where, half dead with the fright,

And wounded and bleeding he waited till day,

Then, for home crawled away—

So sore and so weary, the journey did seem

Like a terrible dream!

At last he arrived to find Fifine in grief,

But glad for relief.

"I deceived you," moaned Jack, "my fate I deserve,

Thus from my duty to swerve!

But vain this regret!

While yet I do live!"

Oh, my dearest forgive,

"I have nought to forgive," was her loving reply, 66 And you must not die."

With care Jack recovered, and never again

Caused Fifine such pain:

And so they lived happy as happy could be

In their house up the tree.

65

PLEASURES.

BUT pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,

A moment white-then melts for ever!

ogre, a terrible monster.

8 whetted, sharpened.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.*

ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name :
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link.

Spink, spank, spink.

Snug and safe is this nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee!"

Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White on his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his pretty note,
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Look what a nice new coat is mine;

Sure there never was a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee!"

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings,

"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink.

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee!"

* An American song-bird, called "Bobolink," from its notes.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is ho, Pouring boasts from his little throat, "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink.

Never was I afraid of man ;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee!"

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight;
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might,
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink.

Nice good wife that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about,
Chee, chee, chee!"

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for his hungry brood;
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink.

My new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee!"

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care,

Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air.
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,
Spink, spank, spink.

Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee!"

.3

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic he no more knows,
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ;3
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link.

Spink, spank, spink.

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again,
Chee, chee, chee."

AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air, blow soft-mount, lark, aloft,

To give my love good-morrow!

Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

Bird, prune thy wing-nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow!

To give my love good-morrow

Notes from them both I'll borrow.

2

wanes, fades.

3

crone, a dull old wife.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreas,
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves', amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

1 stare, stariing.

68

HAY-MAKING.

N the hay, in the hay,

Toss we and tumble;

No one to say us nay,
All through this Summer's day,
No one to grumble.

In the hay, in the hay,

Arthur we'll smother;

Bring armfuls: heap them high;
Pile them up-now good-bye,
Poor little brother!

In the hay, in the hay,

Snugly reclining,1

Shaded from noontide heat,

Smelling the clover sweet,

See us all dining;

2 elves, fairies. I reclining, lying at length.