BALLADE OF YULE.

"Heigo-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly."

This life's most jolly, Amiens said
Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he
As the good duke was comforted

By these reflections, so may we !
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy;
But round the old mahogany tree

We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!
Though some are dead and some are fled
To lands of summer over sea,

The holly berry keeps his red,

The merry children keep their glee;

They hoard with artless secresy,

This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,

And Santa Claus he turns the key

On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Amid the snow the birds are fed.

The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,

The skies are shining overhead,

The robin's tame that was so free.

Far North, at home, the "barley bree"

They brew; they give the hour to folly.

How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie"

They sing; we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Envoi.

Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,

The yearly tithe of mirth : be jolly!

It is a duty so to be,

Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly!

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.

Our youth began with tears and sighs
With seeking what we could not find;
Our verses all were threnodies,

In elegiacs still we whined;

Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
We sought and knew not what we sought.
We marvel, now we look behind :
Life's more amusing than we thought!

Oh! foolish youth, untimely wise!

Oh! phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies,

With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought!

Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies,
To mourn for youth we're not inclined;
We set our souls on salmon-flies,

We whistle where we once repined.
Confound the woes of human-kind!
By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot;
Who hum, contented or resigned,
"Life's more amusing than we thought!"

Envoy.

O nate mecum, worn and lined

Our faces show, but that is naught;

Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind

Life's more amusing than we thought!

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE FOR THE LAUREATE.
(After Theodore de Banville.)

Rhyme, in a late disdainful age,

Hath many and many an eager knight, Each man of them, to print his page,

From every quarter wings his flight! What tons of manuscript alight

Here in the Row, how many a while For all can rhyme, when all can writeThe master's yonder in the Isle !

Like Otus some, with giant rage,

But scarcely with a giant's might, Ossa on Pelion engage

To pile, and scale Parnassus' height! And some, with subtle nets and slight, Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,1

And wond'rous adjectives unite—

The master's yonder in the Isle !

Alas, the Muse they cannot cage
These poets in a sorry plight!
Vain is the weary war they wage,

In vain they curse the Critic's spite !
While grammar some neglect outright,
While others polish with the file,
The Fates contrive their toil to blight-
The master's yonder in the Isle !

Envoy.

Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright,
And Browning, in his iron style,
Doth gold on his rude anvil smite-
The master's yonder in the Isle !

ANDREW LANG. 1 For example 'dawning' and 'warning,'

BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS.

Fair islands of the silver fleece,

Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,
Whose havens are the haunts of Peace,
Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;
Our bolt is shot, our tale is told,
Our ship of state in storms may toss,
But ye are young if we are old,

Ye Islands of the Southern Cross !

Aye, we must dwindle and decrease,
Such fates the ruthless years unfold;
And yet we shall not wholly cease,
We shall not perish unconsoled;
Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold
Within the sea's inviolate fosse,
And boast her sons of English mould,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross !

All empires tumble-Rome and Greece-
Their swords are rust, their altars cold!
For us, the Children of the Seas,

Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled,
For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled,
I read no runes of hopeless loss;
Nor-while ye last-our knell is tolled,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross !

Envoy.

Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold,
When o'er thy grave has grown the moss,
Still Rule Australia shall be trolled

In Islands of the Southern Cross !

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS.

(To M. C.)

Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers
When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers

As she croons the runes of the blossoming?
For the same old blooms do the new years bring.

But not to our lives do the years come so,

New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.—

Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

Ah! me for a breath of those morning hours
When Alice and I went awandering
Through the shining fields, and it still was ours
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering-
Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing.—
How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh !
With Phyllis once more to be whispering. -
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devours

Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing,
And surely beneficent heavenly powers

Save Muriel's beauty from perishing;
And if in some golden evening

To a quaint old garden I chance to go,

Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

In these lives of ours do the new years bring
Old loves as old flowers again to blow?
Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?-
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

R. LE GALLIENNE.