Merry it is on a winter’s night, To listen to tales of elf and sprite, Of caves and castles so dim and old,-- The dismallest tales that ever were told;-- And then to laugh, and then to sing, You may take my word is a merry thing,-- But ’tis merrier far to swing--to swing! Down with the hoop upon the green; Down with the ringing tambourine;-- Little heed we for this or for that; Off with the bonnet, off with the hat! Away we go like birds on the wing! Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!” This is the way we swing--we swing! Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light, Mount up behind him--there, that is right! Down bends the branch now;--swing him away; Higher yet--higher yet--higher I say! Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing “A pear for the Queen--an apple for the King!” And shake the old tree as we swing--we swing! ELLEN MORE. “Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth Beneath the sunny sky; Why stand you musing all alone, With such an anxious eye? What is it, child, that aileth you?” And thus she made reply: “The fields are green, the skies are bright, The leaves are on the tree, And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme Far flies the honey-bee; And the lark hath sung since morning prime, And merrily singeth he. “Yet not for this shall I go forth On the open hills to play, There’s not a bird that singeth now, Would tempt me hence to stray;-- I would not leave our cottage door For a thousand flowers to-day!” “And why?” said I, “what is there here Beside your cottage door, To make a merry girl like you Thus idly stand to pore? There is a mystery in this thing,-- Now tell me, Ellen More!” The fair girl looked into my face, With her dark and serious eye; Silently awhile she looked, Then heaved a quiet sigh; And, with a half-reluctant will, Again she made reply. “Three years ago, unknown to us, When nuts were on the tree, Even in the pleasant harvest-time, My brother went to sea-- Unknown to us, to sea he went, And a woful house were we. “That winter was a weary time, A long, dark time of woe; For we knew not in what ship he sailed And vainly sought to know; And day and night the loud, wild winds Seemed evermore to blow. “My mother lay upon her bed, Her spirit sorely tossed With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck Upon some savage coast, But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven That he might not be lost. “And when the pleasant spring came on, And fields again were green, He sent a letter full of news, Of the wonders he had seen; Praying us to think him dutiful As he afore had been.