WINSOME MAGGIE.

When winsome little Maggie Comes dancing down the street, The people smile upon her, And pause, and kindly greet. The white-haired parson gently Lays hand upon her head, The roguish doctor pinches Her cheek so round and red. The grim old judge’s visage, Forever in a frown, Relaxes for an instant, As, passing, he looks down. The matrons stoop to kiss her, The children, at their play, Call out, as little Maggie Goes tripping on her way. Not e’en the dreaded gossip, Who through her half-closed blind Peeps forth, with little Maggie Has any fault to find. When winsome little Maggie, With basket on her arm, In which her father’s luncheon Is wrapped so nice and warm— When she enters the long workshop And pauses at his side, Quick down he lays his hammer And turns in love and pride, To look into her limpid eyes, And stroke her sunny hair, And jest and frolic with her— Forgetting toil and care— For the music of her laughter And the mirth of her replies, The while there’s not a happier man, Or richer, ’neath the skies. Ah, well, it is a blessing To have a heart so gay That it keeps your feet a-dancing, Your face alight alway, And that, like winsome Maggie, It seems, where’er you go, As if the clouds had parted To let a sunbeam thro’.