She started up, with a colour so red,
  Catching hold of his bridle-rein;
“One penny, one penny, kind sir,” she said,
  “Will ease me of much pain.”

“Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,
  Pray tell me where you were born?”
“At Islington, kind sir,” said she,
  “Where I have had many a scorn.”

“I pr’ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,
  O tell me, whether you know
The bailiff’s daughter of Islington?”
  “She is dead, sir, long ago.”

“If she be dead, then take my horse,
  My saddle and bridle also;
For I will into some far countrie,
  Where no man shall me know.”

O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,
  She standeth by thy side: 
She is here alive, she is not dead—­
  And ready to be thy bride.

O farewell grief, and welcome joy,
  Ten thousand times therefore! 
For now I have found my own true love,
  Whom I thought I should never see more.

THE MILLER OF DEE.

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee,
He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;
And this the burden of his song for ever used to be: 
“I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.

“I live by my mill, God bless her! she’s kindred, child, and wife;
I would not change my station for any other in life. 
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e’er had a groat from me,
I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.”

When spring begins his merry career, oh! how his heart grows gay;
No summer’s drought alarms his fears, nor winter’s cold decay;
No foresight mars the miller’s joy, who’s wont to sing and say: 
“Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day.”

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing,
The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;
This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring,
Let heart and voice and all agree to say, “Long live the King!”

Isaac Bickerstaffe.

THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping,
  Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,
  And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling,
            oh come back to me.”

Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered. 
And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;
Oh! bless’d be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 
And while they are keeping
Bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,
And say thou would’st rather
They watch’d o’er thy father! 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 
The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see,
And closely caressing
Her child with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”