I. NOONDAY.

Two angry men—in heat they sever, And one goes home by a harvest field:— "Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor; I said and say it, I will not yield!

"As for this wrong, no art can mend it, The bond is shiver'd that held us twain; Old friends we be, but law must end it, Whether for loss or whether for gain.

"Yon stream is small—full slow its wending; But winning is sweet, but right is fine; And shoal of trout, or willowy bending— Though Law be costly—I'll prove them mine.

"His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether, And trod the best of my barley down; His little lasses at play together Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown.

"What then?—Why naught! She lack'd of reason; And they—my little ones match them well:— But this—Nay all things have their season, And 'tis my season to curb and quell."