‘ What ails thee, Jane?’ the wary Matron cried;
With heaving breast the modest Maid reply'd,
Now gently moving back her wooden Chair
To shun the current of the cooling air;
‘ Not much, good Dame; I'm weary by the way;
‘ Perhaps, anon, I've something else to say.’
Now, while the Seed-cake crumbled on her knee,
And Snowy Jasmine peeped in to see;
And the transparent Lilac at the door,
Full to the Sun its purple honors bore,
The clam'rous Hen her fearless brood display'd,
And march'd around; while thus the Matron said:
‘ Jane has been weeping, Walter;— prithee why?
‘ I've seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry.
‘ But I can guess; with her you should have been,
‘ When late I saw you loit'ring on the green;
‘ I'm an old Woman, and the truth may tell:
I say then, Boy, you have not us'd her well.’