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Brown hands splashed with mulberry Content with vaguest feathers and

blood,

The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves

Hiding the berries beneath them;

good!

Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old friend, I haven't

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hairs

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One is a farmer there, and married; One has wandered over the sea.

And, if you ask me, I hardly know Whother I'd be the dead or the clown, The clod above or the clay below. Or this listless dust by fortune blown

To alien lands. For, however it is,
So little we keep with us in life;
At best we win only victories,
Not peace, not peace, O friend, in
this strife.

But if I could turn from the long de- Ah me! should I paint the morrows

feat

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again

In quite the colors so faint today,

And with the imperial mulberry's

stain

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Then, while the grasshopper sung out All our atoms are changed, they

shrill

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I care not how these flowers may be
Beloved of man and woman;
The broom it is the flower for me,
That groweth on the common.

Oh, the broom, the yellow broom!
The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days
To lie and rest among it.

TIBBIE INGLIS.

BONNIE Tibbie Inglis!
Through sun and stormy weather,
She kept upon the broomy hills
Her father's flock together.

Sixteen summers had she seen,-
A rosebud just unsealing;
Without sorrow, without fear,
In her mountain shealing.

She was made for happy thoughts,
For playful wit and laughter;
Singing on the hills alone,
With echo singing after.

She had hair as deeply black
As the cloud of thunder;
She had brows so beautiful,

And dark eyes flashing under.
Bright and witty shepherd girl,

Beside a mountain water,

I found her, whom a king himself
Would proudly call his daughter.

She was sitting 'mong the crags,
Wild and mossed and hoary,
Reading in an ancient book
Some old martyr story.

Tears were starting to her eyes, Solemn thought was o'er her; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her.

Crimson was her sunny cheek,

And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart; · How could I help loving?

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Age and care

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To the core

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. I have tottered here to look once

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"Here's a fool!"

more!

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E'en this gray old rock where I am seated

Is a jewel worth my journey here;
Ah, that such a scene must be
completed
With a tear!

It was summer, and we went to All the picture now to me how dear!

school.

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Would not stay,

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For the game;

When the stranger seemed to mark Old stone school-house! - it is still

our play.

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Ah, to me her name was always heaven!

She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel!

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There the fields of clover, wheat, and

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One sweet spirit broke the silent In the cottage yonder, I was born.

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