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And though I am weakly and can't live long,
And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

And though we never can married be,-
What then ?--since we hold each other so dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,

And the pleasure that only one can see?

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL'.

DE Massa ob de sheepfol',

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin,
Look' out in de gloomerin' meadows,

Whar' de long night rain begin ;-
So he call to de hirelin' shep’a’d,

Is my sheep, is dey all come in ?"
So he call to de hirelin' shep’a'd,

Is my sheep, is dey all come in ?”

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Oh, den says de hirelin' shep'a’d,

“ Dey's some, dey's black and thin,
An' some, dey's po' ol' wedda's,

Dat can't come home ag’in.
Dey is los',” says de hirelin' shep'a'd, -

“ But de res' dey's all brung in,
Dey is los',” says de hirelin' shep’a’d,-

But de res' dey's all brung in."

66

Den de Massa ob de sheepfol,

Dat guard' de sheepfol' bin,

Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows,

Whar' de long night rain begin ;-
So he le’ down de ba's ob de sheepfol',

Callin' sof', “ Come in, come in.”
So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol,

Callin' sof', “ Come in, come in.”

Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows,

Tro’ de col night rain and win',
And up tro' de gloomerin' rain-paf,

Whar' de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin,
De po' los' sheep o’de sheepfol,'

Dey all comes gadderin' in.
De po' los’ sheep o' de sheepfol',

Dey all comes gadderin' in.

SARAH P. MCLEAN GREENE.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud, is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle

The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,

And fond ones are flown,
Oh, who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?

THOMAS Moore.

THE LAST LEAF.

I SAW him once before,
As he pass'd by the door;

And again
The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time

Cut him down,
Not a better man was found

By the crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan;
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,

“ They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has press'd

In their bloom ;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-
Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff ;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

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And if I should live to be
The last leaf

upon

the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,

GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE !”

“ Si vieillesse pouvait !" SCENE.-A small neat room. In a high Voltaire

chair sits a white-haired old gentleman.

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MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS.

Babette.

M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously).
Day of my life! Where can she get ?
Babette! I say! Babette !-Babette !!

BABETTE (entering hurriedly).
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud he won't be well for weeks!

M. VIEUXBOIS.

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