But, when the Multifarious forsook

Bo-hea, Pe-koe, and Wiry-leaf’d Gun-pow-der,

To revel in the lip and sunny look

Of the young stranger; spite of all they’d vow’d her,

The ladies each with jealous anger shook,

And rail’d against the simple maid aloud—Ah!

This woman’s pride is a fine thing to tell us of—

But a small matter serves her to be jealous of.

One said she was indecorously florid—

One thought “she only squinted, nothing more—”

A third, convulsively pronounced her “horrid “—

While Bo-hea, who was low (at four-and-four),

Glanced from her fingers up at Hy-son’s forehead,

Who, inkling such a tendency before,

Cared for no rival’s nails—but paid—I own,

Particular attention to her own.

Well, this was bad enough; but worse than this

Were the attentions of our ancient hero,

Whose frequent vow, and frequenter caress,

Unwelcome were for any one to hear, who

Had charms for better pleasure than a kiss

From feeble dotard ten degrees from zero.

So, as one does when circumstances harass one,

Hy-son began to draw up a comparison.

“Was ever maiden so abused as I am?

Teazed into such a marriage—then to be

Dosed with my husband twenty times per diem,

With repetetur haustus after tea!

And, if he should die, what can I get by him?

A jointure’s nothing among fifty-three!

I’m meek enough—but this I can not bear—

I wish: I wish:—I wish a girl might swear!”

In such a mood, she—(stop! I’ll mend my pen;

For now all our preliminaries are done,

And I am come unto the crisis, when

Her fate depends on a kind reader’s pardon)—

Wandering forth beyond the ladies’ ken,

She thought she spied a male face in the garden—

She hasten’d thither—she was not mistaken,

For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.

A man complete he was who own’d the visage,

A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer—

So young, she could not well distinguish his age—

So old, she knew he had one day been younger.

Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,

Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, or

So; but of lovers when a lady’s caught one,

She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o’ one.

Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener—

A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew—

She felt her bosom round her heart in a—

A—just as if her heart was breaking through;

And so she blush’d, and hoped that he would pardon her

Intruding on his grounds—“so nice they grew!—

Such roses! what a pink!—and then that peony;

Might she die if she ever look’d to see any!”

The gardener offer’d her a budding rose:

She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;

While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,

He took the opportunity to sigh.

And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!

She glanced around to see that none were nigh,

Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,

His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”

They stood each looking in the other’s eyes,

Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lack

Love is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.

And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!

Still barters he such baubles for the prize,

Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—

The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—

Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.

Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.

Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip

The dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,

He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,

The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.

The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,

And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,

Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”