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SONGS OF THE SEEDY.--No. VI.

You bid me rove, Mary,
In the shady grove, Mary,
With you to the close of even;
But I can't, my dear,
For I must, I swear,
Be off at a quarter to seven.

Nay, do not start, Mary;
Nor let your heart, Mary,
Be disturb'd in its innocent purity;
I'm sure that _you_
Wouldn't have me do
My friend--my bail--my security!

That tearful eye, Mary,
Seems to ask me why, Mary,
I can wait till sunset on'y.
Ah! turn not away;
I am out for the day
On a _Fleet_ and fleeting _pony_.

Your wide open mouth, Mary,
With its breath like the south, Mary,
Seems to ask for an explanation.
Well, though not of the schools,