And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run--
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,
_"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

Along the shady road I look--
Who's coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white--
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,
"_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

1895.




THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

Do you remember, father,--
It seems so long ago,--