e thee fly,
Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!

Thy stream intoxicates my song,
For I am warm;
I love thee late, I love thee long;
Thou dost me charm;
I ever loved thee much before,
And now I love thee more and more,
For thou art loved the wide world o'er,
Charming Bacchus, god of wine!

"Angels hear that angels sing,"
Sang the bard,
While the muse is on the wing,
Pay regard;
See how Bacchus' nectar flows,
Healing up the heartstrings' woes,
Making friends, and _minus_ foes,
Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!

Ever on thee I depend,
As my guest;
Thou wilt bring to me the friend
I love best;
Friendship is the wine of love;
Angels dwell with it above,
Cooing like the turtle-dove
Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!

Laughing Genius, a "Good night!"
Yet, stay awhile!
Ere thou tak'st thy upward flight,
Upon me smile;
Drop one feather from thy breast
On the bard, that he may rest,
Then he will be doubly bless'd,
Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!

Kings are great, but thou art just,
Night and day;
What are kings but royal dust--
Birds of prey?
Though in splendour they may be--
Menials bow, and bend the knee--
Oh, let me dwell along with thee,
Famous Bacchus, god of wine!

[Picture: Picture of plant]

Sall o't' Bog.

Mi love is like the passion dock,
That grows i' t'summer fog;
An' tho' shoo's but a country lass,
I like mi Sall o' t'Bog.

I walk'd her aght up Rivock End,
An' dahn a bonny dell,
Whear golden balls an' kahslips grow,
An' buttercups do smell.

We sat us dahn on top o' t'grass,
Clois to a runnin' brook,
An' harken'd t'watter wagtails sing
Wi' t'sparrow, thrush, an' rook.

Aw lockt her in mi arms, an' thowt
As t'sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar
At ivver aw hed seen.

'Twor here we tell'd wur tales o' love,
Beneath t'owd hezzel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall o' t'Bog,
How dearly shoo loved me!

An' if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,
Aw vah bi all aw see,
Aw wish 'at aw mud be a kah,
An' it beleng ta thee.

But aw hev plump fergetten nah
What awther on us said;
At onny rate we parted friends,
An' boath went hooam to bed.

Song of the Months.

High o'er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes,
As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:
See the lean pauper by his grim