There as the mother sits all day, Spink, spank, spink; Nice, good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Chee, chee, chee. AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. LREADY, close by our summer dwelling, ALREADY, The Easter sparrow repeats her song; A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms-- The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, The south wind wanders from field to forest, Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Though many a flower in the wood is waking, No lays so joyous as these are warbled No pampered bloom of the greenhouse chamber 79 Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, There is no glory in star or blossom. Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes, Till breathed with joy as they wander by. Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. THE SONG OF THE SOWER. B] THE SONG OF THE SOWER. I. HE maples redden in the sun; THE In autumn gold the beeches stand; Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly And ask the sower's hand. Loose the tired steer and let him go II. Fling wide the generous grain; we fling The early bluebirds sing. Fling wide the grain; we give the fields And swells, an amber sea, between Hark! from the murmuring clods I hear The song of him who binds the grain, III. Fling wide the golden shower; we trust As o'er them, in the yellow grains, Such as, on Solferino's day, Slaked the brown sand and flowed away; Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink, On the sad earth, as time grows gray, And chieftains to the war shall lead Whole nations, with the tempest's speed, |