To my Cigar. ES, social friend, I love thee well, YE Thy cloud all other clouds dispel And lap me in delight. What though they tell, with phizzes long, When in the lonely evening hour, O'er history's varied page I pore, Oft as the snowy column grows, I trace how mighty realms thus rose, 60 Awhile To My Cigar. Awhile like thee earth's masters burn And then like thee, to ashes turn Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled, From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe, And what is he who smokes thee now? A little moving heap, That soon, like thee, to fate must bow, But though thy ashes downward go, Thus when my body lieth low 61 Charles Sprague, 1791 — 1876. Rosalind's L Rosalind's Madrigal. OVE in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast: My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, He music plays if so I sing, He lends me every lovely thing: Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Rosalind's Madrigal. Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence: And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy, Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; O, Cupid so thou pity me, 63 Spare not, but play thee. From "Euphues Golden Legacie," 1592. By Thomas Lodge. John John Anderson My Fo. J OHN ANDERSON my jo, John, Your locks were like the raven, John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns, 1759—1796. The |