On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
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There is a certain Yankee phrase
I always have revered,
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Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing,
I heard a moder to her dearie singing
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JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd
Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes,
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Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
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Republicans of differing views
Are pro or con protection;
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I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
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Come, brothers, share the fellowship
We celebrate to-night;
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Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night
A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light;
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The image of the moon at night
All trembling in the ocean lies,
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The stars are twinkling in the skies,
The earth is lost in slumbers deep;
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Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name;
Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the same;
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How happens it, my cruel miss,
You're always giving me the mitten?
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(LYRIC INTERMEZZO)
There fell a star from realms above--
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Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
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Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother
With prattlings and with vain ado
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Since Chloe is so monstrous fair,
With such an eye and such an air,
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I cannot eat my porridge,
I weary of my play;
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Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awaye
Ye poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May,
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If our own life is the life of a flower
(And that's what some sages are thinking),
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See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow,
Soracte mocks the sullen sky;
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One asketh:
"Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
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You ask me, friend,
Why I don't send
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Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite
As blithe a little maid as you.
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Accept, dear girl, this little token,
And if between the lines you seek,
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When Father Time swings round his scythe,
Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,
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My books are on their shelves again
And clouds lie low with mist and rain.
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Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,--
Lie in my arms and dinna greit;
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Krinken was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled.
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The Northland reared his hoary head
And spied the Southland leagues away—
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