“Canst tell me, Sire,” she said, “what mean The gentry of your land, When softly, thus, and thus, they take And press a lady’s hand?” “Ha! ha!” laughed Hal, “but tell me, Chick, Each answering in course, Do any press your hand?” “O yes, My Master of the Horse.” Off to the wars her gallant went, And pushed the foremost dikes, And gashed his fair young form against A score of Flemish pikes. Heart’s blood ebbed fast; but Montagu, Dipping a finger, wove These red words in his shield: “Dear Queen, I perish of your love!” Kimbolton, after many a year, Again met Katherine’s view: The banished wife, with half a sigh, Remembered Montagu. WILD WINDS WHISTLE. 1. Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed; _Wild winds whistle and snow is come_; He has brought her home to his bower and bed. _Hither and thither the birds fly home._ Her hair is darker than thick of night; _Wild winds whistle, &c._ Her hands are fair, and her step is light. _Hither and thither, &c._ From out his castel in the North Sir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth. Three things he left her for good or ill,— A bonny bird that should sing at will, With carol sweeter than silver bell, Day and night in the old castel; A lithe little page to gather flowers; And a crystal dial to mark the hours. 2. Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speed Away to the chase on his faithful steed. From morning till night, the first day long, She sat and listened the bonny bird’s song. The second day long, with fingers fair, She curled and combed her page’s hair. The third day’s sun rose up on high; By the dial she was seated nigh: She loathed the bird and the page’s face, And counted the shadow’s creeping pace. 3. The strange knight drew his bridle-rein; He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain. “O lady!” he said, “’twas a sin and shame To leave for the chase so fair a dame. “O lady!” he said, “we two will flee To the blithesome land of Italie; “There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine, And a bower of myrtle shall be thine.” He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth: Now Ho! sing Ho! for the sunny South. He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist: Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste! 4. Sir Ulric back from the chase has come, And sounds the horn at his castel-home. Or ever he drew his bridle-rein, He saw the dial split in twain; The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead, And the lithe little page hung down his head. The lithe little page hung down his head; _Wild winds whistle and snow is come_; “O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled?” _Hither and thither the birds fly home._ PETER STUYVESANT’S NEW YEAR’S CALL. 1 JAN. A. C. 1661.