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26o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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And they're mighty fond of charring, So I dare not write his name outside,
For fear they would be laughing, So I wrote " From little Kate to one
Whom she loves faithfully,"
And he knows it—oh, he knows it —
Without one word from me.
Now, girls, would you believe it,
That postman, so consated, No answer will he bring me,
So long as I have waited; But maybe—there mayn't be one,
For the reason that I stated — That my love can neither read nor write,
But loves me faithfully,
And I know where'er my love is,
That he is true to me. |
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LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
I
'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May rnornin'.-long ago, When first you were my bride: The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high — And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the lovelight in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary ;
The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, |
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