But know, if you have n't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

Then take my advice, darling widow machree, Och hone! widow machree!

And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat.

WIDOW MACHREE.

BRET HARTE.

WIDOW machree, it's no wonder you frown,
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,

'T is destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free:

Be no longer a churl

Of its black silken curl,

Och hone! widow machree.

Widow machree, now the summer is come,

Och hone! widow machree ;

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

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 !

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!

Sure the shovel and tongs

To each other belongs,

And the kettle sings songs

Full of family glee;

While alone with your cup

Like a hermit you sup,

Och hone! widow machree !

M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouthered, and guid as when

new;

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the gray mare, and rade cannilie,
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;

"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low,

towld,

Och hone! widow machree,

But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in 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,

Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, And wi' a laigh curtsie she turnèd awa'.

Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie,
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.

COOKING AND COURTING.

FROM TOM TO NEd.

DEAR Ned, no doubt you 'll be surprised
When you receive and read this letter.
I've railed against the marriage state;
I've met a lovely girl out here ;
But then, you see, I knew no better.

Her manner is We're soon to be

I'll tell you all,

well --- very winning :

well, Ned, my dear, from the beginning.

I went to ask her out to ride

Last Wednesday - it was perfect weather. She said she could n't possibly :

The servants had gone off together (Hibernians always rush away,

At cousins' funerals to be looking); Pies must be made, and she must stay,

She said, to do that branch of cooking.

"O, let me help you," then I cried:

"I'll be a cooker too - how jolly!" She laughed, and answered, with a smile, "All right! but you'll repent your folly; For I shall be a tyrant, sir,

And good hard work you'll have to grapple ; So sit down there, and don't you stir,

But take this knife, and pare that apple."

She rolled her sleeve above her arm,

That lovely arm, so plump and rounded;
Outside, the morning sun shone bright;
Inside, the dough she deftly pounded.
Her little fingers sprinkled flour,

And rolled the pie-crust up in masses:
I passed the most delightful hour
Mid butter, sugar, and molasses.

With deep reflection her sweet eyes

Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle:
She sliced the apples, filled her pies,
And then the upper crust did settle.
Her rippling waves of golden hair

In one great coil were tightly twisted;
But locks would break it, here and there,

And curl about where'er they listed.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win ;
This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer, -
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

LOVE.