And who should Mary Jones prefer?
Why, surely, him who loves her best!

"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
I would not idly thus intrude,"--
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.

And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must,"--and seal'd it with a kiss.

The Interest of an old Horse asserted.

She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check,
But what had shame with them to do,
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honour to pursue?

His eloquence improv'd apace,
As manly pity fill'd his mind;
"You know poor Bayard; here's the case,--
He's past his labour, old, and blind:

"If you and I should but agree
To settle here for good and all,
Could you give all your heart to me,
And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?