Yet, I can never brood o'er you again,
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.
Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!
=The Young Sportsman=
Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all.
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