The Free Lance Happye am I, for she is mine Gladlye she comes toe me With a wagging tayle and a winsome whine For a bulle-dogge fayre is she, Knowest thou but joy, Laughing lip and billiant eye ? Sing not thou, for joy Being joy, must shortly die. Knowest thou but pain, 'rears so salt they sting like fire ? Sing not thou, for pain Seals the heart from high desire. But if both are thine, joy that shines through sorrow's sadness, Sorrow mingling song with gladness, Sing thou then, the world thee hears And smiles 1 hrough tears, THE ARBUTUS Like some lone maiden in a woodland glade, Sporting apart without a thgught or care, Who sees the sudden stranger standing there, Then turns to hide, half curious, half afraid, Holding across her breast's unconquered space One hand which hardly serves to hide the sight, While with a movement of untutored grace She checks her hair which blows in wild delight And clings in love-locks on her blushing face— So fair arbutus, 'neath the secret shade Of leaves that dimly screen new budding grace, You try to hide your charms, and so evade Unwelcome suitors to your forest place; While you blush crimson like a maiden gay When to her listening heart love throbs its first swe: —H. R. R. in T THISPRIMROSn WAY The primrose way—'tis that young lovers take To stroll in dalliance sweet, and there forsake The cares that 'long the beaten pathway lie. Forgotten there the tearthere, only sigh The winds, who softly mourn for dead love's sa 'Tis wont to lead through leafy paths, whose sha Half veils the love-dark eyes of swain or maid, Or dancing sun-motes kiss the cheeks that glo At words Francesca heard so long ago, When other's joy her own great love betrayed. Who cares if cynics scoff? They have their day Or fate is blind. Then, maidens, while ye may The roses gather. Come the primrose way. A SONG. —H. R. R. in
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers