True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease, And golden rods, and tansy running high That oer the pale-tops smiled on passers-by, Flowers in my time that every one would praise, Though thrown like weeds from gardens nowadays; Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads, And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads, And yearly keep with nettles smothering oer;-- The house, the dame, the garden known no more: While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-tree Is all that's left of what had used to be, Marking the place, and bringing up with tears The recollections of one's younger years. And now I've done, ye're each at once as free To take your trundle as ye used to be; To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en, Or headlong run, and be a second Jane; For by one thoughtless girl that's acted ill A thousand may be guided if they will: As oft mong folks to labour bustling on, We mark the foremost kick against a stone, Or stumble oer a stile he meant to climb, While hind ones see and shun the fall in time. But ye, I will be bound, like far the best Love's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest, And ten times sooner than be warned by me, Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee, Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tell Than old dames' cautions, who would wish ye well: So have your wills."--She pinched her box again, And ceased her tale, and listened to the rain, Which still as usual pattered fast around, And bowed the bent-head loaded to the ground; While larks, their naked nest by force forsook, Pruned their wet wings in bushes by the brook. The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased, As restless children from the school released, Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold, That young ones' stories were preferred to old, Turn to the whisperings of their former joy, That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy. _In Hilly-Wood_ How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs, Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me; Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs, But not an eye can find its way to see. The sunbeams scarce molest me with a smile, So thickly the leafy armies gather round; And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while, Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground. Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen, Perks up its head the hiding grass between,-- In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be; Where all the noises, that on peace intrude, Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee, Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude. _The Ants_