She posies sold right merrily,
      Alack and well-a-day;
  But not a flower was fair as she,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
  “Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
  Might dare the seller too to buy!”
      Alack and well-a-day.

  She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  “I’m not, sir, in the market yet,”
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  “Your love must cool upon a shelf;
  Tho’ much I sell for gold and pelf,
  I ’m yet too young to sell myself,”
     Alack and well-a-day.

  The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  And looked he at the maid once more,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  Then loud he cried, “Fair maiden, if
  Too young to sell, now as I live,
  You’re not too young yourself to give,”
      Alack and well-a-day.

  The little maid cast down her eyes,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  And many a flush began to rise,
      Alack and well-a-day. 
  “Why, since you are so bold,” she said,
  “I doubt not you are highly bred,
  So take me!” and the twain were wed,
      Alack and well-a-day.

MERRY AUTUMN

  It’s all a farce,—­these tales they tell
    About the breezes sighing,
  And moans astir o’er field and dell,
    Because the year is dying.

  Such principles are most absurd,—­
    I care not who first taught ’em;
  There’s nothing known to beast or bird
    To make a solemn autumn.

  In solemn times, when grief holds sway
    With countenance distressing,
  You’ll note the more of black and gray
    Will then be used in dressing.

  Now purple tints are all around;
    The sky is blue and mellow;
  And e’en the grasses turn the ground
    From modest green to yellow.

  The seed burrs all with laughter crack
    On featherweed and jimson;
  And leaves that should be dressed in black
    Are all decked out in crimson.

  A butterfly goes winging by;
    A singing bird comes after;
  And Nature, all from earth to sky,
    Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

  The ripples wimple on the rills,
    Like sparkling little lasses;
  The sunlight runs along the hills,
    And laughs among the grasses.

  The earth is just so full of fun
    It really can’t contain it;
  And streams of mirth so freely run
    The heavens seem to rain it.

  Don’t talk to me of solemn days
    In autumn’s time of splendor,
  Because the sun shows fewer rays,
    And these grow slant and slender.

  Why, it’s the climax of the year,—­
    The highest time of living!—­
  Till naturally its bursting cheer
    Just melts into thanksgiving.

WHEN DE CO’N PONE’S HOT