The only moon I see, Biddy,

Is one small star asthore !
An' that's forninst the very cloud
It was behind before.

The watchfires glame along the hill,
That's smilin' to the South;
An' whin the sintry passes them
I see his oogly mouth.

It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And drhamin' swate I'd be,
If thim ould rebels over there
Would only lave me free;
But when I lane against a shtump,
An' shtrive to get repose,

A musket ball, he's comin' shtrate
To hit me spacious nose

It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,
A shparkin' here wid me,
And thin, avourneen, hear ye say,
"Acushla, Pat, machree!"
"Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I.
Says you, "Get out of that."

Says I, "Me arrum mates your waste."
Says you, "Be daycint, Pat."

An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy ? It's thim I think of, shure,

That looked so innosint and shwate

Upon the parlor flure;

I'm sure you're aisy with the pig,
That's fat as he can be,

An' fade him wid the best, because
I'm tould he looks like me.

When I come home agin, Biddy,

A sargint tried and thrue,
It's joost a daycint house I'll build,
And rint it chape to you ;

We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall,
A duck-pond nately done,

With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch,
An' garret-all in one.

But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree,

An' well I know the crathur's there,
To have a shot at me.

Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers,
And hould yer dirthy paw,
Here goes!--begorra, Biddy dear,
I've broke his oogly jaw!

UNCLE PETE'S COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY MERRIED.

EDMUND KIRKE.

Ole Aggy an' I

My chil'ren, lub one anoder; b'ar wid one anoder; be faithful ter one anoder. You hab started on a long journey; many rough places am in de road; many trubbles will spring up by de wayside; but gwo on hand an' hand togedder; lub one anoder, an' no matter what come onter you, you will be happyfor lub will sweeten ebery sorrer, lighten ebery load, make de sun shine in eben de bery cloudiest wedder. I knows it will, my chil'ren, 'case I'se been ober de groun'. hab trabbled de road. Hand in hand we hab gone ober de rocks; fru de mud; in de hot burning sand; been out togedder in de cole, an' de rain, an' de storm, fur nigh onter forty yar, bur we hab clung to one anoder; an' fru ebery ting in de bery darkest days, de sun ob joy an' peace hab broke fru de clouds, an' sent him bressed rays inter our hearts. We started jess like two young saplin's you's seed a growin' side by side in de

woods. At fust we seemed 'way part, fur de brambles, an' de tick bushes, an' de ugly forns-[dem war our bad ways]-war atween us, but lub, like de sun, shone down on us, an' we grow'd. We grow'd till our heads got above de bushes; till dis little branch, an' dat little branch-dem war our holy feelin's-put out toward one anoder, an' we come closer an' closer togedder. An' dough we'm ole trees now, an' sometime de wind blow, an' de storm rage fru de tops, an' freaten ter tear off de limbs, an' ter pull up de bery roots, we'm growin' closer an' closer, an' nearer an' nearer togedder ebery day-an' soon de ole tops will meet; soon de ole branches, all cobered ober wid de gray moss, will twine roun' one anoder; soon de two ole trees will come togedder, an' grow inter one foreber-grow inter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind neber'll blow, whar de storm neber'll beat; whar we shill blossom an' bar fruit to de glory ob de Lord, an' in His heabenly kingdom foreber! Amen.

TRUST.

JOHN G WHITTIER.

A picture memory brings to me;
I look across the years, and see
Myself beside my mother's knee.

I feel her gentle hand restrain
My selfish moods, and know again
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain.

But wiser now, a man gray grown,
My childhood's needs are better known,
My mother's chastening love I own.

Gray grown, but in our Father's sight
A child still groping for the light
To read His works and ways aright,

I bow myself beneath His hand;
That pain itself for good was planned
I trust, but cannot understand.

I fondly dream it needs must be
That as my mother dealt with me,
So with His children dealeth He.

I wait, and trust the end will prove
That here and there, below, above,
The chastening heals, the pain is love!

THE KNIGHT'S TOAST.

ANONYMOUS.

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine

In lordly cup is seen to shine

Before each eager guest;

And silence fills the crowded hall,

As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And smiling cried : A toast! a toast!

To all our ladies fair!

Here before all, I pledge the name
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,
The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,

Till Stanley's voice was heard,

Then one by one each guest sprang up.
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; On him are fixed those countless eyes ;A gallant knight is he;

Envied by some, admired by all,

Far famed in lady's bower and hall,—

The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high: "I drink to one," he said,

"Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead.

'To one, whose love for me shall last, When lighter passions long have past,So holy 'tis and true;

To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,

With fury flashing eye;