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378          MARY N. M'DONALD.

Oh! a weary time hath pass'd away
Since my brothers were out by my side at play,
A weary time, with its weight of care,
And its toil in the city's crowded air–
And its pining wish for the hill-tops high–
For the laughing stream and the clear blue sky–
For the shaded dell, and the leafy halls
Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls.
But I see the haunts of my early days,
The old green wood where the sunshine plays,
And the flashing stream in its course of light,–
And the hill-tops high, and the skies so bright,–
And the silent depths of the shaded dell,
Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell,–
And the mighty charm which hath conquered these
Is nought, save a rush of the autumn breeze.

It was but a violet's faint perfume,
But it bore me back to a quiet room,
Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay,
Was breathing her fair young life away,
Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell,
And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell,
And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings
Stole in with its tale of all lovely things.
Where love watch'd in through the long, long hours,
And friendship came with its gift of flowers;
And death drew near with a stealthy tread,
And lightly pillow'd in dust her head,
And seal'd up gently the lids so fair,
And damp'd the brow with its clustering hair,
And left the maiden in slumber deep,
To waken no more from that tranquil sleep.
Then we laid the flower her hand had prest,
To wither and die on her gentle breast;
And back to the shade of that quiet room
I go with the violet's faint perfume.


MARY N. M'DONALD.        379

THE LITTLE BIRD THAT TOLD THE SECRET.

So I've heard your secret, Mabel,
I've heard it, my little maid,
And you're going to do a silly thing
I am very much afraid.

You're going to marry the miller,
And live beside the mill!
But the miller, they say, is an idle man,
And often his wheel stands still.

And they say he is growing careless,
And spends the livelong day
In gazing over the shining stream
At a cottage across the way.

And they say he is wild and wilful,–
So prithee, my Mabel, dear,
Don't give your hand to the miller,
If all is true that I hear.

Who says he is idle, Bessie?
And wild and wilful, too?
If ever it come to the miller's ears,
They may find it cause to rue.

Any who told you this mighty secret?
You need not think 't is so;
A body may walk with a quiet man,
Yet never to church may go.

I should like to see the lassie
Who told you the silly jest;
As if I would part with my secret,
For a ring and a wedding vest.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 16:48:29 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 17:07:44