Oh! dearly do I love "Old Cries" That touch my heart and bid me look On "Bough-pots" plucked 'neath summer skies, And "Watercresses" from the brook. It may be vain, it may be weak, To list when common voices speak; But rivers with their broad, deep course, Pour from a mean and unmarked source: And so my warmest tide of soul From strange, unheeded spring will roll. "Old Cries," "Old Cries"--there is not one But hath a mystic tissue spun Around it, flinging on the ear A magic mantle rich and dear, From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun, To the loud wish that cometh when The tune of midnight waits is done With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen, And a Happy New Year--Past one- O'clock, and a frosty morning!" And there was a "cry" in the days gone by, That ever came when my pillow was nigh; When, tired and spent I was passively led By a mother's hand, to my own sweet bed-- My lids grew heavy, and my glance was dim, As I yawned in the midst of a cradle hymn-- When the watchman's echo lulled me quite, With "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night!" Well I remember the hideous dream, When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream, As I took a wild leap o'er the precipice steep, And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep. How I loved to behold the moonshine cold Illume each well-known curtain-fold; And how I was soothed by the watchman's warning, Of "Past three o'clock, and a moonlight morning!" Oh, there was music in this "old cry," Whose deep, rough tones will never die: No rare serenade will put to flight The chant that proclaimed a "stormy night." The "watchmen of the city" are gone, The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone; We hear no voice at the wintry dawning, With "Past five o'clock, and a cloudy morning!" Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away, But I sadly miss the cry That told in the night when the stars were bright, Or the rain-cloud veiled the sky. Watchmen, Watchmen, ye are among The bygone things that will haunt me long. "Three bunches a penny, Primroses!" Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring; When she offers her dew-spangled posies; The fairest Creation can bring. "Three bunches a penny, Primroses!" The echo resounds in the mart; And the simple "cry" often uncloses The worldly bars grating man's heart. We reflect, we contrive, and we reckon How best we can gather up wealth; We go where bright finger-posts beckon, Till we wander from Nature and Health. But the "old cry," shall burst on our scheming, The song of "Primroses" shall flow, And "Three bunches a penny" set dreaming Of all that we loved long ago. It brings visions of meadow and mountain, Of valley, and streamlet, and hill, When Life's ocean but played in a fountain-- Ah, would that it sparkled so still!