It conjures back shadowless hours, When we threaded the dark, forest ways; When our own hand went seeking the flowers, And our own lips were shouting their praise. The perfume and tint of the blossom; Are as fresh in vale, dingle, and glen; But say, is the pulse of our bosom As warm and as bounding as then? "Three bunches a penny,--Primroses!" "Three bunches a penny,--come, buy!" A blessing on all the sweet posies, And good-will to the poor ones who cry. "Lavender, sweet Lavender!" With "Cherry Ripe!" is coming; While the droning beetles whirr, And merry bees are humming. "Lavender, sweet Lavender!" Oh, pleasant is the crying; While the rose-leaves scarcely stir, And downy moths are flying, Oh, dearly do I love "Old Cries," Your "Lilies all a-blowing!" Your blossoms blue, still wet with dew, "Sweet Violets all a-growing!" Oh, happy were the days, methinks, In truth the best of any; When "Periwinkles, winkle, winks!" Allured my last, lone penny. Oh, what had I to do with cares That bring the frown and furrow, When "Walnuts" and "Fine mellow Pears" Beat Catalani thorough. Full dearly do I love "Old Cries," And always turn to hear them; And though they cause me some few sighs, Those sighs do but endear them. My heart is like the fair sea-shell, There's music ever in it; Though bleak the shore where it may dwell, Some power still lives to win it. When music fills the shell no more, 'Twill be all crushed and scattered; And when this heart's deep tone is o'er, 'Twill be all cold and shattered. Oh, vain will be the hope to break Its last and dreamless slumbers; When "Old Cries" come, and fail to wake Its deep and fairy numbers! _Dust, O!--Dust, O!--Bring it out to day, Bring it out to-day, I sha'n't be here to-mor-row!_ [Illustration: Dust, O!--Dust, O!] His noisy bell the dustman rings, Her dust the housemaid gladly brings: Ringing he goes from door to door, Until his cart will hold no more. [Illustration: THE DUSTMAN.] Bring out your dust, the dustman cries, Whilst ringing of his bell: If the wind blows, pray guard your eyes, To keep them clear and well. I am very glad 'tis not my luck To get my bread by carting muck; I am sure I never could be made To work at such a dirty trade. Hold, my fine spark, not so fast, Some proud folks get a fall at last; And you, young gentleman, I say, May be a Dustman, one fine day. All working folks, who seldom play, Yet get their bread in a honest way, Though not to wealth or honours born, Deserve respect instead of scorn. Such rude contempt they merit less Than those who live in idleness; Who are less useful, I'm afraid, Than I, the Dustman, am by trade. [Illustration: THE BIRDMAN.]