Were they a token those apples,
Tokens of love,
Sent from the warmth of thy bosom
Ardour to prove?
Take all my thanks, dearest maiden, for then
Those apples make me the richest of men.

But if they brought me no promise,
Sure 'twere a shame
Lightly to kindle my passion
Nor quench the flame.
Be not more cruel than Telephus found
Spear of the foeman to cure his wound.

For thou art ever, love, the very same:
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.

Pass death, pass heaven, and search the utmost deep
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,

You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,
You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;
You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,
And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs.
You have cheered for Tommy Atkins, and you've yelled for Jack Canuck;
You have praised the French and Belgians, every one.
But I'm rhyming here a measure to the valor and the pluck
Of the Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun.

There's a harder game than fighting; there's a deeper wound by far

A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT

Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea?
Have you met with that dreadful old man?
If you have n't been caught, you will be, you will be;
For catch you he must and he can.

He does n't hold on by your throat, by your throat,
As of old in the terrible tale;
But he grapples you tight by the coat, by the coat,
Till its buttons and button-holes fail.

AN OLD SONG REVIVED .

Air — Gaelic

" O listen! listen, and I'll tell ye
How this fair maid's played her part: —
First she vowed and promised to me,
Now she strives to break my heart!
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.

I coft you silken garters, Mally,
And sleeve-knots for your tartan gown;
I coft you a green necklace, Mally,
To busk ye whan ye gade to town:
You gae me kisses sweet as hinny!
You gae me words mair sweet than true;

I now forsake the Elegiac strain,
Inspir'd by sorrow, and perus'd with pain;
The storm subsides, the clouds are clear dispers'd,
The prospect brightens, and my fate's revers'd,
These tidings, dear Eliza, will impart
Pleasing sensations to thy tender heart;
Affection prompts me freely to disclose
My flatt'ring hopes, and to conceal my woes;
Infectious sorrows their contagion spread,
And cause fair Virtue to recline her head,
Prosperity elates the human mind,
Yet in her train, unhappiness we find.
We view her pageantry with partial eyes,

Complacency! thou gift refin'd!
To me thy aid impart;
Preserve thy Empire in my mind.
And regulate my heart.

Thy presence will adorn each scene,
With modest temp'rate rays;
Grant, I become like thee serene,
Nor thirst for empty praise.

Oh! lead me to thy sacred bow'r,
Where Peace, and Virtue dwell;
There let me feel thy healing pow'r,
To Folly bid farewell.

This the chief purpose of my soul,
To seek thy blest abode;
Contentment the inviting goal,
And rectitude the road.

‘Hech! lass, but ye're canty and vogie;
Wow! but your een look pauky and roguie;
What war ye doing, Kate, down in yon bogie,
 Up in the morning sae airy and grey?’
‘I've been wi' somebody! —what need ye to speer;
I've been wi' young Jamie!—I've been wi' my dear!
—God save me! my mither will miss me, I fear!—
 D'ye ken, lass! he's courting me a' the lang day!

‘O Kate, tak tent, and be wary!
Jamie's a sad ane!—he never will marry;
Think o' poor Tibby;—he's left her to carry
 Blackburning shame till the day that she'll die!’

Ah why my Soul, art thou absorb'd in pain?
Why art thou found disquieted in vain?
Dispel thy fears, let every doubt subside,
Acquaint thyself with God, in him conside.
Frail Man, of Woman born, is heir to woe;
From various sources his afflictions flow;
As sparks ascending bear to heav'n their course,
So sorrow triumphs with resistless force.
On Earth, what being is exempt from pain?
Awake, then, oh my Soul! no more complain.
Art thou not blest with bright Reflection's aid?
Is not thy Maker's love with grace display'd?

Air — Bonnie Dundee .

Oh! tell me, bonnie young lassie!
 Oh tell me how for to woo!
Oh! tell me, bonnie sweet lassie!
 Oh tell me how for to woo!
Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning?
 Lips like the roses fresh moistened wi' dew?
Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning?—
 Oh! tell me how for to woo!
Far hae I wandered to see thee dear lassie!
 Far hae I ventured across the saut sea!
Far hae I travelled owre moorland and mountain,
 Houseless, and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea!