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48 BLUE GRASS BALLADS
The rich-robed birds, with whirr and swish, In dashing by were flashing fish.
Pine cones were conch shells on the floor, And soughing winds the ocean's roar.
The great white clouds above the tips Of waving trees, were full-sailed ships, With romance laden, for the land Where Love stands shivering on the strand.
But here, within the forest deep, Where angels through the blue spots peep, We wandered far—sweet Belle and I-— And heard the forest laugh and cry. To crown her sire's birthday fete, We gathered bloom and tarried late.
DANCING IN THE OLD TIME.
For his love of " Kerry dancing,"
Sweet the Irish poet sings; But to me far more entrancing,
As returned on memory's wings, Are the dances and the luncheons
In the cabins long ago, And the way we shook the puncheons
To the strains of " Old Jim Crow."