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Show THE FISHERMAN. By Eden Phillpotts. He was a lad of high degree; She was a farmer's daughter; He came to fish the silver ley; Or did he come to court her? "Oh, angle where you will," quoth she; "The little trout may swim to thee; But never think that you'll catch me." Yet where was that fair maiden born But felt her heart beat higher To see a lordling look forlorn And beg to come anigh her? "Stray nearer if you must," qouth she, "Since 'tis an act of charity; But never try to speak to me." The Woodland ways are sweet and green Under the summer weather, And through the dingle, through the dene, Go boy and girl together. "You held my hand, because," quoth she, "The stepping-stones were slippery; But now I'm over, let it be." A heart that burns, a breast that sighs, Red lips with promise laden; A pleading voice and bright-brown eyes Alas, my pretty maiden! "Can such a Icing of men," quoth she, "Look down to wed a girl like me? Then will I trust my soul to theel" She sits amid the yellow sheaves, That little farmer's daughter, Or counts the scarlet cherry leaves Fall on the shining water. "Red leaves and river deep," qouth she, "Come hide my tear-worn heart, for he Hath broken and forgotten me." From the August Scribner. |