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Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along

of following a monkey and an organ; O my Billy-my head will turn right round-if he's got kid

dynapped with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the

outlandish tatterdemalions. Billy-where are you, Billy?- I'm as hoarse as a crow, with

screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And sha'n't have hålf à voice, no more I sha'n't, for crying

fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't

be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folks' darlin's, and none of mine, playing

like angels in our alley! And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at

the old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there ain't

no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only

knowed where to run; Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month

through stealing a penny bun,The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill

me raily To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the

Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search

for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty be

haved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a moth

er ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't

been washed for a week; As for hair, though it's red, it's the most nicest hair when

I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only

bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though a little

cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good un, though the bridge is broke,

by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very

large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was

the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways-but oh, I nev

er, never shall see him no more! Oh dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!

at twenty a penny, And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in

plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and,

drat him, made a seize of our hog. It's no use to send the crier to cry him about, he's such a

blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guz

zling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted

mother and father about town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home

to your best of mothers! I'm scared when I think of them cabroleys, they drive so,

they'd run over their own sisters and brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to

stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when

the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine,

to clap my two longin' eyes on his face, For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come

back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two motherly arms,

and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was,-but a child

don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young

wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and

I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

ACROSS THE RIVER.-LUCY LARCOM.

When for me the silent oar

Parts the Silent River,
And I stand upon the shore

Of the strange Forever,
Shall I miss the loved and known?
Shall I vainly seek mine own?
Mid the crowd that come to meet

Spirits sin-forgiven,--
Listening to their echoing feet

Down the streets of heaven,-
Shall I know a footstep rear
That I listen, wait for, here?

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AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.-ALICE CARY.

O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw

Shapes of things that you never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown,

The picture must not be over-bright,

Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn

Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room

Under their tassels --cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)

These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide, -
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,

Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and corntields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face

That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words :

Yet one word tells you all I would say, -
She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir; one like me,

The other with a clearer brow,

And the light of his adventurous eyes

Flashing with boldest enterprise: At ten years old he went to sea,-

he ;

Hesailed in the good ship"Eminodore,".

Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.

Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay

With my great-hearted brother on her deck:

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee: That beauteous heaa, if it did go down,

Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night

We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-Loitering till after the low little light

Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack's pointed top,
All of a tremble, and ready to drop,

The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see

Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree,

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,
Dead at the top,-just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,

From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day.

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs;
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat :
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.

Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace

To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:

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