Up with the lark in the pasture you’ll meet with her,
    Songs like his own sweetly trilling,
  Carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her,
    Small mouths with lollypops filling: 
  And while, as he stands in a puzzle,
  She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle,
    The calves and the lambs
    Run deserting their dams
  In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.

  Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence
    She leads, just to lighten their sewing;
  Now at the farm, her food basket on arm,
    She has set all the cock’rels a-crowing. 
  The turkey-cock strutting and strumming,
  His bagpipe puts by at her humming,
    And even the old gander,
    The fowl-yard’s commander,
  He winks his sly eye at her coming.

  Never to wandering minstrel or pondering
    Poet her castle gate closes: 
  Ever her kindly cheer—­ever her praise sincere
    Falls like the dew on faint roses. 
  And when her Pennillions rhyming
  She mates to her triple harp’s chiming,
    In her green Gorsedd gown—­
    The half of the town
  Up the fences to hear her are climbing.

  Men in all fashions have pleaded their passions—­
    The scholar, the saint, and the sinner,
  Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,—­
    For only a hero shall win her: 
  And to share his strong work and sweet leisure
  He’ll have no keen chaser of pleasure,
    But a loving young beauty
    With a soul set on duty,
  And a heart full of heaven’s hid treasure.

OLD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over from Delhi to Dover,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon;
Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can’t furnish a paragon. 
Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy? 
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he’ll shape yez;
No way infarior in skill, but suparior
And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.

Chorus:  He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here’s to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure,
Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages,
Showin’ their tongues or unlacin’ their lungs,
For divel wan sympton the docther disparages,
Troth an’ he’ll tumble for high or for humble
From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin’ as light of nursin’ all night
The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

  Chorus:  He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

  And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical,
    Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother,
  And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness,
    Prescribin’ the right boys and girls to each other. 
  And the sufferin’ childer!  Your eyes ’twould bewilder,
    To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin’—­
  Each of them fast on some treasure at last,
    Well knowin’ ould Mack’s just a toy-shop out travellin’.