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“ Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,

“ But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,

When you are man and wife.”

“If I'm a beggar born,” she said,

“ I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,

And fling the diamond necklace by.”

“ Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,

“But keep the secret all ye can.” She said, “ Not so: but I will know

If there be any faith in man.”

“ Nay now, what faith ?” said Alice the nurse,

“ The man will cleave unto his right.” “ And he shall have it,” the lady replied,

“Though I should die to-night.”

“ Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!

Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.” “O mother, mother, mother,” she said, !

“So strange it seems to me.

“ Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,

My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head,

And bless me, mother, ere I go.”

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare ; She went by dale, and she went by down,

With a single rose in her hair.

lair.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:

“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you dressed like a village maid,

That are the flower of the earth?”

“ If I come drest like a village maid,

I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born,” she said,

“ And not the Lady Clare.”

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,

“ For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,

“ Your riddle is hard to read.”

O and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes,

And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:

He turn’d, and kiss'd her where she stood : “ If you are not the heiress born,

And I,” said he, “ the next in blood

“ If you are not the heiress born,

And I,” said he,“ the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn,

And you shall still be Lady Clare.” THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

In her ear he whispers gaily,

“ If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,

And I think thou lov’st me well.” She replies, in accents fainter,

“ There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter,

And a village maiden she. He to lips that fondly falter,

Presses his wi hout reproof; Leads her to the village al’ar,

And they leave her father's roof. “ I can make no marriage present;

Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,

And I love thee more than life.”

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