Twirl went his stick; his curly pate A bran-new hat uplifted bore; And Abner, as he leapt the gate, Had never look'd so gay before. Old Love revived. And every spark of love reviv'd That had perplex'd him long ago, When busy folks and fools contriv'd To make his Mary answer--_no_. But whether, freed from recent vows, _Her_ heart had back to Abner flown, And mark'd him for a second spouse, In truth is not exactly known. Howbeit, as he came in sight, She turn'd her from the garden stile, And downward look'd with pure delight, With half a sigh and half a smile. Rustic Salutation. She heard his sounding step behind, The blush of joy crept up her cheek, As cheerly floated on the wind, "Hoi! Mary Jones--what wont you speak?" Then, with a look that ne'er deceives, She turn'd, but found her courage fled; And scolding sparrows from the eaves Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head. Down Abner sat, with glowing heart, Resolv'd, whatever might betide, To speak his mind, no other art He ever knew, or ever tried. [Illustration: a couple.] A clear Question. And gently twitching Mary's hand, The bench had ample room for two, His first word made her understand The plowman's errand was to woo. "My Mary--may I call thee so? For many a happy day we've seen, And if not mine, aye, years ago, Whose was the fault? you might have been! "All that's gone by: but I've been musing, And vow'd, and hope to keep it true, That she shall be my own heart's choosing Whom I call wife.--Hey, what say you? Past Thoughts stated. "And as I drove my plough along, And felt the strength that's in my arm, Ten years, thought I, amidst my song, I've been head-man at Harewood farm. "And now, my own dear Mary's free, Whom I have lov'd this many a day, Who knows but she may think on _me?_ I'll go hear what she has to say. "Perhaps that little stock of land She holds, but knows not how to till, Will suffer in the widow's hand, And make poor Mary poorer still The Avowal. "That scrap of land, with one like her, How we might live! and be so blest! And who should Mary Jones prefer? Why, surely, him who loves her best! "Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench, I would not idly thus intrude,"-- Mary look'd downward on the bench, O'erpower'd by love and gratitude. And lean'd her head against the vine, With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss, Till Abner cried, "You must be mine, You must,"--and seal'd it with a kiss. The Interest of an old Horse asserted. She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check, But what had shame with them to do, Who nothing meant but truth to speak, And downright honour to pursue? His eloquence improv'd apace, As manly pity fill'd his mind; "You know poor Bayard; here's the case,-- He's past his labour, old, and blind: "If you and I should but agree To settle here for good and all, Could you give all your heart to me, And grudge that poor old rogue a stall? His Character.