. The book of ballads . I know how much you loved liim ;But I know thou dost not weejiFor him;—for though his passion be,His purse is noways deep. Then tell me why those teardrops ;What means this woful mood 1Say, has the tax-collectorBeen calling, and been rude ? Or has that hateful grocer, The slave ! been here to-day ?Of course he had, by morrows noon,A heavy bill to pay! * Come, on thy brothers bosomUnburden all thy woes ;Look up, look up, sweet sister;There, dearest, blow your nose. Oh, John, t is not the grocer,Nor his account; althoughHow ever he is to be paid,I really do not know. M 19
. The book of ballads . I know how much you loved liim ;But I know thou dost not weejiFor him;—for though his passion be,His purse is noways deep. Then tell me why those teardrops ;What means this woful mood 1Say, has the tax-collectorBeen calling, and been rude ? Or has that hateful grocer, The slave ! been here to-day ?Of course he had, by morrows noon,A heavy bill to pay! * Come, on thy brothers bosomUnburden all thy woes ;Look up, look up, sweet sister;There, dearest, blow your nose. Oh, John, t is not the grocer,Nor his account; althoughHow ever he is to be paid,I really do not know. M 194 THE BOOK OF UALLADS. .J T is not the tax-collector; Though by his fell command,Theyve seized our old paternal clock,And new umbrella-stand. Nor that Augristus Howard,Whom I despise almost,—But the soots come down the chimney, John,And fairly spoiled the roast! ?. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 Cnmfnrt in SfflirtinE. Wherefore starts my bosoms lord 1Why this anguish in thine eye 1 Oh, it seems as thy hearts cordHad broken with that sigh ! V & Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,Rest thee on my bosom now ! And let me wipe the dews away,Are gathering on thy brow. There, again ! that fevered start! What, love ! husband! is thy pain ?There is a sorrow on thy heart, A weight upon thy brain! Nay, nay, that sickly smile can neerDeceive aifections searching eye ; T is a wifes duty, love, to shareHer husbands agony. ^
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