And I was as fresh as a lark,
Never a day but some minute We met betwixt dawning and dark.
II.
"Katie, and when shall we marry?"
"Marry?" she said, with a sigh, —
"That's cake and ribbons on Monday, And sorrow ere Saturday's by.
III.
"You are as lean as a lizard,
I am as poor as a mouse;
Nothing per annum, paid quarterly, Hardly finds rent for a house.
IV.
"'Love and a crust in a cottage,'
Capital! just for a pair:
What if the hut should grow populous? How would the populace fare?
V.
"Oh, ay! the uncle you reckon on, —
Gouty, and rich, and unwed, —
Dick! they wait ill, says the adage, who Wait for the shoes of the dead.
VI.
"Ah! if I loved you, I'd risk it!
That's what you're thinking, I guess: —
Why, I would risk it to-morrow, Dick, if I cared for you less!
VII.
"Love's apt to fly out at window
When Poverty looks in at door:
Rather I'd die than help banish him, Dick, just by keeping you poor.
VIII.
"Kiss me! you'll look in on Sunday?
Won't my new bonnet be brave?
June at its longest and leafiest — My! what a ramble we'll have!
IX.
"Bye-bye! There's grandmother waiting
Patient at home for her tea:
Dick, if you wouldn't wed both of us, You must be patient for me!"
X.
Showers, if they ruffle its foliage,
Freshen the green of the grove;
True lovers' tiffs, said old Terence, are Only fresh fuel to love.
XI.
If I flung off in a passion —
If she crept in for a cry —
Sunday came smiling and settled it, Katie was wiser than I.
XII.
Love's but a baby that, passionate,
Cries to be mated, at birth:
Time isn't lost if it teaches you What a good woman is worth.
XIII.
What if the waiting was wearisome?
What if the work-days were drear?
Time, the old thief, couldn't rob us of Fifty-two Sundays a year.
Blackwood's Magazine.
A SONG IN THE NIGHT.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, From thine own hand;
The strength to bare it bravely Thou wilt command.
I am too weak for effort, So let me rest,
In hush of sweet submission, On thine own breast.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, As proof indeed
That thou art watching closely My truest need;
That thou, my Good Physician, Art working still;
That all thine own good pleasure Thou wilt fulfil.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus! What thou dost choose,
The soul that really loves thee Will not refuse.
It is not for the first time I trust to-day!
For thee my heart hath never A trustless "Nay!"
I take this pain, Lord Jesus! But what beside?
'Tis no unmingled portion Thou dost provide.
In every hour of faintness, My cup runs o'er
With faithfulness and mercy, And love's sweet store.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, As thine own gift,
And true though tremulous praises I now uplift.
I am too weak to sing them, But thou dost hear
The whisper from the pillow, — Thou art so near!
'Tis thy dear hand, O Saviour, That presseth sore,
The hand that bears the nail-prints Forevermore.
And now beneath its shadow, Hidden by thee,
The pressure only tells me Thou lovest me!
