NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.

‘ Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?

Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non.

Derriere chez mon pere

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 chant 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.