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140 HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING,

123. HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE

CUCKOO IS SINGING. How glad I shall be when the Cuckoo is singing,

When Spring-time is here and the sunshine is warm; For 'tis pleasant to tread where the blue-bell is springing,

And lily-cups grow in their fairy-like form. When we shall see the loud twittering swallow

Building his home ’neath the cottager's eaves ;
The brown-headed nightingale quickly will follow,

And the orchard be glad with its blossoms and leaves.
The branches so gay will be dancing away,
Decked out in their dresses so white and so pink;

And then we'll go straying,
And playing

And maying
By valleys, and hills, and the rivulet's brink.

How glad I shall be when the bright little daisies

Are peeping all over the meadows again ;
How merry 'twill sound when the skylark upraises

His carolling voice o'er the flower-strewn plain.
Then the corn will be up, and the lambs will be leaping,

The palm with its buds of rich gold will be bent;
The hedges of hawthorn will burst from their sleeping,

All fresh and delicious with beauty and scent,
Twill be joyous to see the young wandering bee,
When the lilacs are out, and laburnum boughs swell;

And then we'll go straying,
And playing

And maying
By upland and lowland, by dingle and dell.

How glad I shall be when the furze-bush and clove:

Stand up in their garments of yellow and red; When the butterfly comes like a holiday rover,

And grasshoppers cheerily jump as we tread. All the sweet wild flowers then will be shining,

All the high trees will be covered with green ; We'll gather the rarest of blossoms for twining,

And garland the brow of some bonnie May Queen.

HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING. 141

Like the branches so gay, we'll go dancing away,
With our cheeks in the sunlight and voices of mirth;

And then we'll go straying,
And playing

And maying,
And praise all the loveliness shower'd on earth.

ELIZA COok.

124. EVENING.
How like a tender mother

With loving thoughts beguild, .
Fond nature seems to lull to rest

Each faint and weary child !
Drawing the curtain tenderly,

Affectionate and mild.

Hark! to the gentle lullaby

That through the trees is creeping;
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads

Ere the moon as yet comes peeping,
Like a tender nurse, to see if all

The little ones are sleeping.

One little fluttering bird,

Like a child in a dream of pain,
Has chirp'd and started up,

Then nestled down again;
Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest,
Are as like as any twain.

CHARLOTTE YOUNG.

142

COUNT EBERHARD.

125. COUNT EBERHARD.
Four counts together sat to dine,

And when the feast was done,
Each, pushing round the rosy wine,

To praise his land begun.
The Margrave talked of healthful springs,

Another praised his vines ;
Bohemia spoke of precious things

In many darksome mines.
Count Eberhard sat silent there-

“Now, Würtember, begin!
There must be something good and fair

Your pleasant country in !"
“In healthful springs and purple wine,"

Connt Eberhard replied-
“In costly gems and gold to shine,

I cannot match your pride;
“ But you shall hear a simple tale :-

One night I lost my way
Within a wood, along a vale,

And down to sleep I lay.
“And there I dreamed that I was dead,

And funeral lamps were shining
With solemn lustre round my head,

Within a vault reclining.

" And men and women stood beside

My cold sepulchral bed';
And shedding many tears, they cried

• Count Eberhard is dead !

COUNT EBERHARD.

143

" A tear upon my face fell down,

And, waking with a start,
I found my head was resting on

A Würtemburgian heart!

“A woodman 'mid the forest-shade

Had found me in my rest,
Had lifted up my head, and laid

It softly on his breast !"

The princes sat, and wondering heard,

Then said, as closed the story,
“ Long live the good Count Eberhard-

His people's love his glory!"
Translated from Zimmerman.

ANON.

126. THE ORPHAN. My mother, does thy gentle eye

Look from those distant stars on me? Or does the wind at evening bear

A message to thy child from thee?

The vesper bell !—'tis eventide,

I will not weep, but I will pray : God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou

Alone canst be the orphan's stay!

Earth's meanest flower, heaven's mightiest star,

Are equal to their Maker's love :
And I can say “ Thy will be done,”
With eyes that fix their hopes above.

L. E. LANDON.

144

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.

127. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
HAMELIN town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side ;
A pleasanter spot you never spied ;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town-hall came flocking: 'Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor's a noddy ; And as for our corporation-shocking To think we buy gowns, lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease?

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