Allen-a Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright: Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home: 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the 66 hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone ; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye; And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, BALLAD SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl! My blood before was thin and cold, THE LAST LEAF My shadow falls upon my grave, She might have stayed a little yet, Ay, call her on the barren moor, Full many a thankless child has been, Her meat was served on plates of gold, But now she 'll share the robin's food, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will! 155 Thomas Hood. THE LAST LEAF I SAW him once before, As he passed by the door, The pavement stones resound They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found But now he walks the streets, And he shakes his feeble head, The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. JENNY kissed me when we met, Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me! Leigh Hunt. 1 Note 13. DOROTHY Q A Family Portrait GRANDMOTHER's mother! her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air, Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; On her hand a parrot green the canvas full in view, up Look! there's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust; That was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. Who the painter was none may tell, |