He
“I prithee, tell me wh’re you live? 
  Oh Maid, so sweet and rare!”
    She
“I am ye miller’s daughter, sir,
  And live just over th’re”
    He
“Of all ye Maids I ever saw,
  You are beyond compare.”
    She
“Oh; Thank you, sir!  Oh; thank you, sir! 
  Your words are very fair.”
    He
“So I w’ld ask you something, now;
  If I might only dare.”
    She
“Now, you may ask me wh’t you please,
  For anything I care.”
    He
“Then will you marry me?  For we. 
  W’ld make a goodly pair.”
    She
“I thank you sir; your offer, it
  Is most extremely rare. 
But as I am already wed,
  You’r late, sir, for ye Fair.”

At th’s ye Bachelor walked away,
And talked to himself of th’ Lass so gay—­
“Her hair is very decidedly red;
And her eyes have somewhat of a cast in her head;
And her feet are large, and her hands are coarse;
And, without I’m mistaken, her voice is hoarse. 
’Tis a bargain of wh’ch I am very well rid;
I am glad, on ye whole, I escaped as I did.”

Howard Pyle

[Illustration:  Ye sad story concerning one innocent little Lamb and four wicked Wolves. The illustrations show small insets of the lamb dancing, the four wolves sitting and watching the lamb dance, and finally a group of lambs looking at its tail as the wolves run away.]

YE SAD STORY CONCERNING ON INNOCENT LITTLE LAMB AND FOUR WICKED WOLVES

A little lamb was gamboling,
    Upon a pleasant day,
And four grey wolves came shambling,
    And stopped to see it play
      In the sun. 
  Said the lamb, “Perhaps I may
  Charm these creatures with my play,
  And they’ll let me go away,
      When I’ve done.”

The wolves, they sat asmiling at
    The playful thing, to see
How exceedingly beguiling that
    Its pretty play could be. 
      See it hop! 
  But its strength began to wane,
  Though it gamboled on in pain,
  Till it finally was fain,
      For to stop.

Oh! then there was a munching,
    Of that tender little thing,
And a crunching and a scrunching,
    As you’ld munch a chicken wing. 
      No avail
  Was its cunning, merry play
  For the only thing, they say,
  That was left of it that day,
      Was its tail. 
  So with me; when I am done,
  And the critics have begun,
  All they’ll leave me of my fun
      ’Ll be the tale.

H Pyle

[Illustration]

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