Violets, do what they will, Wither’d on the ground must lie: Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die. I fear much, lest some _meaning_, which may have crept into my verses should prove destructive of that exquisite simplicity at which I aim; however, what scholar is not inferior to the master? Fair women win the hearts of men, Men the hearts of women too! It _has_ been so, the Lord knows when―― What then can the poor things do? Their blue eyes will be blue eyes still; Will have fire, and fire will warm: Lips will be lips, _say_ what they will; And to kiss them, where’s the harm? To church, to marry, fair one, go―― Bells in belfries toll, ding dong; If your mother did not so, Then your mother, child, did wrong. (The last verse is omitted, not because it is too long, but because it is too _broad_.) From _The British Press_. March 3, 1813. ――――:o:―――― WHAT WOMEN MAKE OF MAN. I heard her singing lively notes, While on a chair I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sweet thoughts to the mind. To her fair face had nature linked A subtle charm that through me ran. And it pleased my heart to think, I was a lady’s man. Soft blushes would, in that sweet hour, Each time we met, her face suffuse. And told me I had gained the power To have her hand did I but choose. Bright couples round me danced and played, Their thoughts I could not measure, But, as approached the beauteous maid, My heart was full of pleasure. My outstretched hands caught hold her arm, And drew her to my side. I told my love, confessed her charm; The maiden quick replied “Here comes my husband;” then she went; The maiden even ran! Have I not reason to lament What maidens make of man! WM. E. DOUBLEDAY. ――――:o:―――― THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED. _Written in an Australian Album on its Home Tour._ Ne’er have I rambled on its marge, Ne’er angled ’mid its willows; I ne’er have sailed in skiff or barge Upon its languid billows. Yet will I sing as Callanan Once sang at Gougaune Barra―― Yet will I sing as best I can The lazy winding Yarra. Ah! many a day of weary toil, And much privation well borne, Have served to tame the rampant soil And raise this rising Melbourne. Some forty years ago, as wild, As lonely as Sahara, Now rife with life and Trade’s keen strife, Just at the mouth of Yarra. It creeps between high wooded sides, And ere it reach the city, Past holy Abbotsford it glides―― To which it owes this ditty. For in Australian album, why Waste praise on Connemara, Thy heart’s in Abbotsford, and I Will praise its Yarra-Yarra.