O, little city, grey and sere,

And lonely by thy lonely sea,

Where Youth an hour came back to me

Of willows and of poplars tall,

The white may breaking over all,

And summer rides by marsh and wold,

About the towers of Magdalen[1] rolled;

And memories of the friends of old,

The "flying terms" with bands of gold,—

But dearer far the little town,

The college of the scarlet gown,

St. Andrews by the Northern sea,

That is a haunted town to me!

 NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.   'Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non. Derrière chez mon père Il est un bois taillis, Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit Il chante pour les filles Qui n'ont pas d'ami; Il ne chante pas pour moi, J'en ai un, Dieu merci.'—OLD FRENCH. I 'll never be a nun, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow. But far more fair to see; I 'll never wear nun's black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree. Ah, listen! 'tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail, Within the apple tree; He singeth of the sore distress Of many ladies loverless; Thank God, no song for me. For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate; Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night's noon bring thee! Between lark's song and nightingale's A silent space, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, 'twixt him and me. 

OLD FRENCH

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