289

THE ANNOYER.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes unbidden every where,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream,

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye"With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I'm about;

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.

The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,

The cloud and the open sky,

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thought has he;

He heaves the wave like a boŝom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.

In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,

In earth, and sea, and sky,

In every home of human thought

Will Love be lurking nigh.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

inside out."

"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the

way

You've thrated my heart for this many a

day;

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?

For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

II.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering

Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound"

"Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you

than the ground."

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!"

"Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear,

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

Och! jewel, keep dhraming that same till

you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the

black lie!

Then your lips! O, machree!

In their beautiful glow They a pattern might be

For the cherries to grow.

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know,

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago; But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience I'll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man's father! Och hone! weirasthru !

I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways

That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief,

Pat Magee,

291

And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May,

While she's short and dark like a cold winter's day,

Yet if you don't repent
Before Easter, when Lent
Is over, I'll marry for spite,
Och hone! weirasthru!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.

SAMUEL LOVER.

WIDOW MACHREE.

I.

Och hone! Widow machree;

Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty

black gown

Och hone! Widow machree. How altered your air,

With that close cap you wear—

'Tis destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free: Be no longer a churl

Of its black silken curl

Och hone! Widow machree!

II.

Widow machree, now the summer is comeOch hone! Widow machree!

When every thing smiles, should a beauty look glum?

Och hone! Widow machree!
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares-
Why, even the bears

Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,

Though they can't spake, they wish-
Och hone! Widow machree.

III.

Widow machree, and when winter comes in—
Och hone! Widow machree-

To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! Widow machree.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him; I now would give My love, could he but live

the cowld,

Och hone! Widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled;
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,

That would wake you each night,

Crying, "Och hone! Widow machree!"

V.

'T was vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart; for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!"