Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know

How far more happy 's their estate; To smile for joy than sigh for woe-To be content-than to be great.

"How far less blest am I than them?
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,

The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.'

"And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,

Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"My spirits flag-my hopes decay—

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear,

And many a boding seems to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'"

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,

The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour, for nevermore
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance,

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveler oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall,
As wandering onward they 've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE

The Sailor's Wife.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he 's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel.

Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I 'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there 's nae luck about the house,

There 's nae luck at a',

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockins pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he 's been lang awa'.

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-
In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin 's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman 's awa'.

JEAN AD M

The Toper's Apology.

I'm often ask'd by plodding souls
And men of crafty tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls,

And tippling all night long.

Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn,

For once I'll not disdain

To tell them why I sit till morn
And fill my glass again.

'T is by the glow my bumper gives
Life's picture 's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade:

Some happier tint still rises there
With every drop I drain—

And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flight will take;

But round a bowl she 'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.

Then if the nymph will have her share
Before she 'll bless her swain-
Why that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I 've rung all changes too,—
Run every pleasure down,-
Tried all extremes of fancy through,
And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new or rare
Till wine deceives my brain—
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

There 's many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old;
And as the lesson strikes my head,
My weary heart grows cold.
But wine awhile drives off despair,
Nay, bids a hope remain—
And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state

In these convulsive days,

I can't endure the ruin'd fate

My sober eye surveys;

But, 'milst the bottle's dazzling glare,

I see the gloom less plain—