WILL THE WEAVER.

O Dear mother now I'm marry'd, I could wish I'd longer tarried, For my wife does vow and swear, That she will the breeches wear.

O dear son, go home and love her, And to me no more discover; If she does in the least rebel, Take a stick and bang her well.

As he went home a neighbour met him, And said something for to fret him, Neighbor, neighbor, I'll tell you, What I saw at your house just now.

There I saw that Will the Weaver, And your wife both close together, Stand at the threshold of the door, They went in and I saw no more.

He went home like one in wonder, And at the door did knock like thunder; "Who comes here?" the Weaver cry'd, "It is my husband, you must hide."

Up the chimney then he scamper'd, While in the house her husband enter'd, When she began to make her moan, I'm by myself and all alone.

"While you've been talking all your pleasure "Spending all your gold and treasure, "Leaving me poor girl alone, "By myself to make my moan."

"O my dear wife, be not in a passion, "I'd have you follow my direction; "Draw me some bear, for I am dry," Like a kind wife she did comply.

While she was gone 'twas his endeavor, For to find out Will the Weaver, He hunts the chamber round and round, But not a soul could there be found.

Then he came down like one amazed, And up the chimney then he gazed, Where he espy'd that wretched soul, Sitting across the chimney pole.

Aha! thinks he, it's now I've found you, I will neither hang or drown you, But I will smother you with smoke, This he thought, but little spoke.

Then he built up a roaring fire, Much against his wife's desire, She cry'd out, as I'm your wife, Take him down and spare his life.

Then of the chimney pole he took him, And so merrily he shook him, Crying out at every stroke, "Come here no more to stop my smoke."

Was ever any chimney sweeper, Half so black as Will the Weaver, Hands and face and clothes likewise, He sent him home in that disguise.

THE DAWN OF HOPE.

A DAWN of hope my soul revives, And banishes despair; If yet my dearest Damon lives, Make him, ye Gods, your care.

Dispel these gloomy shades of night, My tender grief remove; Oh! send some cheering ray of light, And guide me to my love.

Thus in a secret friendly shade, The pensive Celia mourn'd, While courteous echo lent her aid, And sigh for sigh return'd.

When soon young Damon's well known face, Each rising fear disarms; He, eager, springs to her embrace, She sinks into his arms.