nd on earth,
Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry stool,
Her fairy-book laid by,
She gazes into the fire, knowing
She has sweet company.

THE MILLER AND HIS SON

A twangling harp for Mary,
A silvery flute for John,
And now we'll play, the livelong day,
"The Miller and his Son."...

"The Miller went a-walking
All in the forest high,
He sees three doves a-flitting
Against the dark blue sky:

"Says he, 'My son, now follow
These doves so white and free,
That cry above the forest,
And surely cry to thee.'

"'I go, my dearest Father,
But O! I sadly fear,
These doves so white will lead me far,
But never bring me near.'

"He kisses the Miller,
He cries, 'Awhoop to ye!'
And straightway through the forest
Follows the wood-doves three.

"There came a sound of weeping
To the Miller in his Mill:
Red roses in a thicket
Bloomed over near his wheel;

"Three stars shone wild and brightly
Above the forest dim:
But never his dearest son
Returns again to him.

"The cuckoo shall call 'Cuckoo!'
In vain along the vale--
The linnet, and the blackbird,
The mournful nightingale;

"The Miller hears and sees not,
Thinking of his son;
His toppling wheel is silent;
His grinding done.

"'You doves so white,' he weepeth,
'You roses on the tree,
You stars that shine so brightly,
You shine in vain for me!

"'I bade him follow, follow!'
He said, 'O Father dear,
These doves so white will lead me far
But never bring me near.'"...

A twangling harp for Mary,
A silvery flute for John,
And now we'll play, the livelong day,
"The Miller and his Son."

DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY

Down-adown-derry,
Sweet Annie Maroon,
Gathering daisies
In the meadows of Doone,
Hears a shrill piping,
Elflike and free,
Where the waters go brawling
In rills to the sea;
Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry,
Sweet Annie Maroon,
Through the green grasses
Peeps softly; and soon
Spies under green willows
A fairy whose song
Like the smallest of bubbles
Floats bobbing along;
Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry,
Her cheeks were like wine,
Her eyes in her wee face
Like water-sparks shine,
Her niminy fingers
Her sleep tresses preen,
The which in the combing
She peeps out between;
Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry,
Shrill, shrill was her tune:--
"Come to my water-house,
Annie Maroon:
Come