(After Heine.)

Thou little village curate, Come quick, and do not wait; We'll sit and talk together, So sweetly tete-a-tete.

Oh do not fear the railway Because it seems so big-- Dost thou not daily trust thee Unto thy little gig.

This house is full of painters, And half shut up and black; But rooms the very snuggest Lie hidden at the back. Come! come! come!

THE CURATE TO HIS SLIPPERS.

Take, oh take those boots away, That so nearly are outworn; And those shoes remove, I pray-- Pumps that but induce the corn! But my slippers bring again, Bring again; Works of love, but worked in vain, Worked in vain!