And I can fiddle and Joan can sing,
And what were better than this?
The young men talk of getting and gold,
And lands far over the sea.
But I and my fiddle will never grow old,
And this is the life for me.
I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan,
And my sweet Joan has me.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
_Smith College Monthly._
~Jamie's Word wi' the Sea.~
(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)
Ye'll no fret ye mair the noo,
Wull ye, sea?
Like ye've dune the winter through,
Roarin' at the sands and me.
Ye were wearyin' yersel'
Till her bit,
Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell.
Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!
Ken ye no the way she rins?
Hoo her hair,
Ower-muckle fer the pins,
Blaws aboot her everywhere?
Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din?
Puir blin' thing!
Ye'll no see her happy rin;
"Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.
Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea,
Doon yer sands,
Jinnie's callin' doon tae me!
Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!
ROBERT JERMAIN COLE.
_Columbia Literary Monthly._
~Lent.~
Priscilla is a maid devout
In this repentant season,
And to the world and all its ways
Has vowed a pious treason.
Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!--
Though long I've tried to win her
I fear that I'm not in it with
Some other lucky sinner.
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