THE NIX THE crafty Nix, more false than fair She envied me my golden hair, She envied me my azure eyes. The moon with silvery ciphers traced She led me to her crystal grot, She set me in her coral chair, She waved her hand, and I had not Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame Were mine, and hers my semblance fair; "O make me, Nix, again the same, O give me back my golden hair!" She smiles in scorn, she disappears, RICHARD GARNETT. SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight; Good man! old man! He's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose rolled over his knee; His periwig's as white as chalk, And on his fist he holds a hawk, And he looks like the head Of an ancient family. His dining-room was long and wide, Good man! old man! His spaniels lay by the fireside; And in other parts, d'ye see Crossbows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; Of an ancient family. He never turned the poor from his gate, Good man! old man! But was always ready to break the pate Of his country's enemy. What knight could do a better thing Than serve the poor, and fight for his king? And so may every head Of an ancient family! REQUIEM GEORGE COLMAN. UNDER the wide and starry sky, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: THE CORN SONG HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Through vales of grass and meads of flowers Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played. We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain And frightened from our sprouting grain All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair. And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home. There, when the snows about us drift, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Who will not thank the kindly earth, |