The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the marriage bell: It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely by his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed: And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- And it may be that I did, mother, but who hasn't done the same? I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing. And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore, And mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother,--and, mother, draw it mild! * * * * * THE MAY QUEEN CORRECTED--May, 1879. They must wrap and cloak me warmly, cloak me warmly mother dear, For to-morrow is the iciest day of all the sad new year. Of all the sad new year, mother, the snowiest, blowiest day, And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. _Punch._ * * * * * CARTED AWAY. _A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers._ You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer: Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say; But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away. There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean, Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen; But no more need of cavil now, the fact's as plain as day, They're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.