These words said the flower of the vine: I am the brightest in all the bowers, I'm gathered for the church, and they say the red blood of Christ is mine. In the harvest field there are three flowers, These words said the wee violet blue: I am the brightest beneath the showers, For the young maidens cull me to deck the hats of those they love so true. THE LONESOME ONE. Before thy door the bright, green corn Bends o'er the pebbly path, Its blooming flowers are not yet born Two doves coo in the math. Comes tripping by a village lass: Her skirts are wet with dew, Has she been raking the moistened grass? Oh, I am far from you. My sweetheart, I'm as far from you As I have been for years, Of her I ask each stranger new, No tidings reach my ears. O'er the lone prairie the wind whistles cold, The young shepherd sadly follows his way. "Where is your flock?" Oh, my sheep I have sold." "Where is your gayety?" Vanished away." "Your sheep you have sold! Why did you so?" "Because on earth I shall need nothing more." "Why did your light heart to a sad one grow?" "Because my false love has wounded it sore." "God guard you, dear prairie, and comrades brave, My reed pipe again I shall never play." O'er the lone prairie the bitter winds rave, The young shepherd sadly follows his way. May beetle, golden beetle; I do not ask when summer will come; I do not ask how long I shall live, I only ask for my rose in bloom. May beetle, golden beetle; I do not ask for the summer's light, For a summer's fire in my heart has burned, Since my rose first flamed upon my sight. The time will come, the time will come, When you will come to weep before the house; When you will clasp the doorpost of the entrance, In deep regret for your unfaithful vows. The time will come, the time will come, When you will come to weep before my door. Perhaps I may a word or two say to you, But not the words I said to you before. When I was a gallant lad, I'd come from my door with glee; I'd thrill the air with shouts of joy, And the world would know 5t was me. Now I am a graybeard old,, I come from my door with pain, Let me shout as loud as I may, No voice will answer again. The petals of the white rose fall; To-day another weds my rose. Through the wood the violins call,