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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 69 pages of information about Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs.

  When a maid is bold and gay,
    With a tongue goes clang-a,
  Flaunting it in brave array,
    Maiden may go hang-a! 
      Sunflower gay and hollyhock
      Never shall my garden stock;
      Mine the blushing rose of May,
      With pouting lips that seem to say,
    “Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
      Though I die for shame-a!”
    Please you, that’s the kind of maid
      Sets my heart a flame-a!

[Illustration]

THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN.

A magnet hung in a hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,
Offering love for all their lives;
But for iron the magnet felt no whim,
Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,
From needles and nails and knives he’d turn,
For he’d set his love on a Silver Churn! 
His most aesthetic,
Very magnetic
Fancy took this turn—­
“If I can wheedle
A knife or needle,
Why not a Silver Churn?”

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,
The needles opened their well drilled eyes,
The pen-knives felt “shut up,” no doubt,
The scissors declared themselves “cut out.” 
The kettles they boiled with rage, ’tis said,
While every nail went off its head,
And hither and thither began to roam,
Till a hammer came up—­and drove it home,
While this magnetic
Peripatetic
Lover he lived to learn,
By no endeavor,
Can Magnet ever
Attract a Silver Churn!

BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR.

Braid the raven hair,
Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
Dye the coral lip. 
Emphasize the grace
Of her ladyship! 
Art and nature, thus allied,
Go to make a pretty bride!

  Sit with downcast eye,
    Let it brim with dew;
  Try if you can cry,
    We will do so, too. 
  When you’re summoned, start
    Like a frightened roe;
  Flutter, little heart,
    Color, come and go! 
  Modesty at marriage tide
  Well becomes a pretty bride!

IS LIFE A BOON?

Is life a boon?  If so? it must befal That Death, whene’er he call, Must call too soon.  Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon!  What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July?  I might have had to die, Perchance, in June!

  Is life a thorn? 
      Then count it not a whit! 
      Man is well done with it;
  Soon as he’s born
      He should all means essay
      To put the plague away: 
  And I, war-worn,
      Poor captured fugitive,
      My life most gladly give—­
      I might have had to live
  Another morn!

A MIRAGE.

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