How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain Is the beauty that walks here--the maiden I love. Her black hair in tangles The rose briar mangles; Her lips and soft cheeks, Where love ever speaks: O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love. It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles, I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye, In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles, Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by. Her hair it was coal black, Hung loose down her back; In her hand she held posies Of blooming primroses, The maiden who passed on the morning of love. Coal black was her silk hair that shaded white shoulders; Ruby red were her ripe lips, her cheeks of soft hue; Her sweet smiles, enchanting the eyes of beholders, Thrilled my heart as she rambled the wild blossoms through. Like the pearl, her bright eye; In trembling delight I Kissed her cheek, like a rose In its gentlest repose. O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love! TO JENNY LIND I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away. Music, own sister to the soul. Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; And sweet her joys and sorrows roll When sings the Swedish Nightingale. * * * * * I cannot touch the harp again; No chords will vibrate on the string; Like broken flowers upon the plain, My heart e'en withers while I sing. Aeolian harps have witching tones, On morning or the evening gale; No melody their music owns As sings the Swedish nightingale. LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry. Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail. Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye. THE FOREST MAID O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; I courted her in happiness for two short years or more. And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill, For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er. O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee, And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird; And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me, And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.