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Wild Flowers - Or, Pastoral and Local Poetry by Robert Bloomfield
page 12 of 76 (15%)
And no two birds upon the farm
E'er prated with more joy than they.

What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turn'd to sorrow;
An order met him at the door.
"Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow."

The Journey renewed.

Yes, yes, thought he; and heav'd a sigh,
Die when he will he's not your debtor:
I must obey, and he must die,--
That's if I can't contrive it better.

He left his Mary late at night,
And had succeeded in the main,
No sooner peep'd the morning light
But he was on the road again!

Suppose she should refuse her hand?
Such thoughts will come, I know not why;
Shall I, without a wife or land,
Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?

Perplexity

From bush to bush, from stile to stile,
Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground,
And told his money all the while
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