her eyes were like, I know not:
Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there glow not
(On the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":
But which was she, brunette or blonde?
Her hair, was it quaintly curly,
Or as straight as a beadle's wand?
That I fail'd to remark;--it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly
In mine,--was it plump or spare?
Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!
_My_ eyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard
That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly?
Or oppressively bland and fond?
Was I partial to rising early?
Or why did we twain abscond,
All breakfastless, too, from the public view,
To prowl by a misty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken--
Whether anything pass'd at all--
And whether the heart was broken
That beat under that shelt'ring shawl--
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone,
Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?
Or her uncle? I can't make out--
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.
For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt
As to why we were there, who on earth we were,
And, what this is all about.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

THE SCHOOLMASTER

ABROAD WITH HIS SON

O what harper could worthily harp it,
Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold
(Look out _wold_) with its wonderful carpet
Of emerald, purple and gold!
Look well at it--also look sharp, it
Is getting so cold.

The purple is heather (_erica_);
The yellow, gorse--call'd sometimes "whin."
Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a
Green beetle as if on a pin.
You may roll in it, if you would like a
Few holes in your skin.

You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you
Should be to the insects who crave
Your compassion--and then, look behind you
At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave
As they undulate--(_undulate_, mind you,
From _unda, a wave_).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
Sounds here--(on account of our height)!
And this hillock itself--who could paint it,
With its changes of shadow and light?
Is it not--(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")--
A marvelous sight?

Then yon desolate eerie morasses.
The haunts of the snipe and the hern--