Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,
    And loud bay’d the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
    For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,
    Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

    Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,
    Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn: 
    Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
    When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

    The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
    The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;
    But of all our proud fellows the proudest I ’ll be,
    While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

    For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
    And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
    And trim as the lady of gentle degree,
    Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.

GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!

    The sun is sunk, the day is done,
    E’en stars are setting one by one;
    Nor torch nor taper longer may
    Eke out the pleasures of the day;
    And since, in social glee’s despite,
    It needs must be, Good night, good night!

    The bride into her bower is sent,
    And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;
    The lover’s whisper’d words and few
    Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
    The dancing-floor is silent quite—­
    No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

    The lady in her curtain’d bed,
    The herdsman in his wattled shed,
    The clansman in the heather’d hall,
    Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! 
    We part in hope of days as bright
    As this now gone—­Good night, good night!

    Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! 
    And if upon its stillness fall
    The visions of a busy brain,
    We ’ll have our pleasure o’er again;
    To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
    Gay dreams to all!  Good night, good night!

THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.

    Though richer swains thy love pursue,
    In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
    And every fair before thee lay
    Their silken gifts, with colours gay—­
    They love thee not, alas! so well
    As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
    Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
    In tatter’d hose and clouted shoon.

    I grieve not for my wayward lot,
    My empty folds, my roofless cot;
    Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
    Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
    Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
    Who by his master still abides;
    But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
    In tatter’d hose and clouted shoon?

POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]

AIR—­"Todlin’ Hame."