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Swells up, and shakes and falls.
SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, "And have you lost your heart?" she said "And are you married yet, Edward Gray ?
Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me:
"Ellen Adair she loved me well,
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.
"Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea;
Filled I was with folly and spite,
When Ellen Adair was dying for me.
"Cruel, cruel the words I said!
Cruelly came they back to-day :
'You're too slight and fickle,' I said,
To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'
“There I put my face in the grass— Whispered, 'Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did :
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!'
"Then I took a pencil, and wrote
"Love may come, and love may go,
"Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turned away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair!
And there the heart of Edward Gray!"
WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.
MADE AT THE COCK.
O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
But let it not be such as that
You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
To make me write my random rhymes,
I pledge her, and she comes and dips
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
I pledge her silent at the board;
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
Through many an hour of summer suns
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Or that eternal want of pence,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
Ah yet, though all the world forsake,
Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true.
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time
We circle with the seasons.
This earth is rich in man and maid;
This whole wide earth of light and shade
And, set in Heaven's third story,
I look at all things as they are,
Head-waiter, honored by the guest
The pint, you brought me, was the best
But though the port surpasses praise,
For since I came to live and learn,
Had ever half the power to turn
Which bears a seasoned brain about,
Though soaked and saturate, out and out,
For I am of a numerous house,
Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept,
Or stowed (when classic Canning died)
Had cast upon its crusty side
The gloom of ten Decembers.
The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is!
She changes with that mood or this,
She lit the spark within my throat,
And hence this halo lives about
He looks not like the common breed
I think he came, like Ganymede,