Gurgles and laughs and plashes, Turning the mill-wheel ’round; Gurgles and laughs so merry— Hush! she can hear the sound. She and the village children Clamber along its route; Ernest is always leading— Hark! she can hear him shout: “Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!” She reaches her hand to him— Sudden the wide eyes vacant Fountains of tear-drops brim. Suddenly far and mocking Sounds the voice of the brook. She turns away from her mountains; Ah, no, no! she must not look. “Courage, my little Marie!” Was it an echo, then? When he went off to the battles— He never came back again— Thus did he say, her lover, Stroking her golden hair: “Courage, my little Marie!” Hist! a step on the stair. Idling and dreaming, Marie! Quick to her work she flies; What if the madame find her Staring with wistful eyes? All in the land of strangers Pity is sweet and rare. Dreary the life before her, Never a soul to care. So, tho’ the sun be shining, So, tho’ the day be glad, Sometimes she loses courage, Sometimes Marie is sad. “THE BANJO.” _Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting-a-ling, ling._ Under the window, Down in the street, Little brown curly head, Little bare feet; Pleadingly lifted, Slumberous eyes, Thrumming, fingering, Nimble hand flies. _Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting-a-ling, ling._ Song of the Southland Over the sea, Sing, little Napolese, Sing to me. “Beautiful Southland Over the sea, Gayly and gladly Sing I of thee! _Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ So will I sing, And so will I sing. “Purple the mountains, Purple the wines, Sunny the hill-slopes Clad with vines; Sunny the skies are, Balmy the air, Time floateth dreamily, Dreamily there. Tirra, la, la, la! Tirra, la, la, Viva, viva, Italia!” Tattered cap held for The pennies dropped down; Off he goes wandering Over the town, Thrumming, fingering—, _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting, ling, ling._ WINSOME MAGGIE. When winsome little Maggie Comes dancing down the street, The people smile upon her, And pause, and kindly greet. The white-haired parson gently Lays hand upon her head, The roguish doctor pinches Her cheek so round and red. The grim old judge’s visage, Forever in a frown, Relaxes for an instant, As, passing, he looks down.