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And came again together on the king
“Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch,
life. “Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life.
“ Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands
; The sea wastes all : but let me live
life. “ Oh! who would love ? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all
heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea : but let me live
song, and I replied with mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs,
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride,
“Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me :
Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ;
“Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast : Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. “I go,
but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me."
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son who lived across the bay, My friend ; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of
Did what I would ; but ere the night we rose
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf
WALKING TO THE MAIL.
John. I'm glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.
Is yon plantation where this byway joins
John. And when does this come by ?
James. The mail ? At one o'clock.
John. What is it now ?
James. A quarter to.
John. Whose house is that I see
Beyond the watermills ?
James. Sir Edward Head's :
But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.
John. Oh, his. He was not broken.
James. No, sir, he,
James. Nay, who knows ? he's here and there. But let him
with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. John. What's that ?
James. You saw the man but yesterday : He pick'd the pebble from your horse's foot. His house was haunted by a jolly ghost That rummaged like a rat. No servant staid : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets forth, and meets a friend who hails him, “ What ! You 're flitting !” “Yes, we're flitting,” says the ghost, (For they had pack’d the thing among the beds,)