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THE ANNUITY.-GEORGE OUTRAM.

I gaed to spend a week in Fife--
An unco week it proved to be-
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin' her viduity.

Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
And, I was sae left to mysel',—

I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh

She just was turned o' saxty-three

I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh,
By human ingenuity.

But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she's yet as stieve as stane-
The limmers growin' young again,

Since she got her annuity.

She's crined' awa' to bane and skin,
But that, it seems, is nought to me;
She's like to live-although she's in
The last stage o' tenuity.

She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums;
But comes-as sure as Christmas comes-
To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care

For an insurance company;

Her chance o' life was stated there,

Wi' perfect perspicuity.

But tables here or tables there,

She's lived ten years beyond her share,
An's like to live a dozen mair,

To ca' for her annuity.

Last Yule she had a fearfu' host,

I thought a kink might set me freeI led her out, 'mang snaw and frost,

Wi' constant assiduity.

But diel ma' care-the blast gaed by,
And miss'd the auld anatomy-

It just cost me a tooth, for bye
Discharging her annuity.

If there's a sough o' cholera,

Or typhus,-wha sae gleg as she? She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity!

She doesna need-she's fever proof-
The pest walked o'er her very roof-
She tauld me sae-an' then her loof
Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell-her arm she brak-
A compound fracture as could be-
Nae leech the cure wad undertak,
Whate'er was the gratuity.

It's cured! She handles't like a flail-
It does as weel in bits as hale-
But I'm a broken man mysel'

Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes
Are weel as flesh and banes can be;
She beats the toads that live in stanes,
An' fatten in vacuity!

They die when they're exposed to air-
They canna thole the atmosphere-
But her!-expose her onywhere-
She lives for her annuity.

If mortal means could nick her thread,
Sma' crime it wad appear to me-
Ca't murder-or ca't homicide-
I'd justify't-an' do it tae.

But how to fell a withered wife

That's carved out o' the tree of life-
The timmer limmer dares the knife
To settle her annuity.

I'd try a shot-but whar's the mark?
Her vital parts are hid frae me;
Her backbone wanders through her sark
In an unkenn'd corkscrewity.

She's palsified-an' shakes her head
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see't,
It's past the power o' steel or lead
To settle her annuity.

She might be drowned; but go she'll not
Within a mile o' loch or sea;

Or hanged-if cord could grip a throat
O' siccan exiguity.

It's fitter far to hang the rope

It draws out like a telescope;

"Twad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop

To settle her annuity.

Will poison do it? It has been tried,
But be't in hash or fricassee,

That's just the dish she can't abide,
Whatever kind o' gont it hae.
It's needless to assail her doubts,
She gangs by instinct--like the brutes,-
An' only eats an' drinks what suits
Hersel' and her annuity.

The Bible says the age o' man

Threescore and ten, perchance, may be;
She's ninety-four. Let them who can,
Explain the incongruity.

She should hac lived afore the flood-
She's come o' patriarchal blood,

She's some auld Pagan mummified
Alive for her annuity.

She's been embalmed inside and oot-
She's sauted to the last degree--
There's pickle in her very smoot
Sae caper-like an' cruety.

Lot's wife was fresh compared to her-
They've kyanized the useless knir,
She canna decompose-nae mair
Than her accursed annuity.

The water-drop wears out the rock,
As this eternal jand wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.

It's pay me here-an' pay me there-
An' pay me, pay me, evermair--
I'll gang demented wi' despair-
I'm charged for her annuity.

KNOCKING-HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

"Behold! I stand at the door and knock!"

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking!
Who is there?

'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder,
Undo the door!

No! that door is hard to open;
Hinges rusty, latch is broken;
Bid Him go.

Wherefore, with that knocking dreary,
Scare the sleep from one so weary?
Say Him, no.

*Suggested by Hunt's picture "Light of the World.”

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking!
What! still there?

Oh, sweet soul, but once behold Him,
With the glory-crowned hair;
And those eyes, so true and tender,
Waiting there!

Open, open, once behold Him-
Him so fair!

Ah, that door! why wilt thou vex me-
Coming ever to perplex me?

For the key is stiffly rusty;

And the bolt is clogged and dusty;
Many fingered ivy vine

Seals it fast with twist and twine;

Weeds of years and years before,
Choke the passage of that door.

Knocking, knocking! What! still knocking?
He still there?

What's the hour? The night is waning;
In my heart a drear complaining,
And a chilly, sad interest.

Ah, this knocking! it disturbs me-
Scares my sleep with dreams unblest.
Give me rest-
Rest-ah, rest!

Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;
Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure—
Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure;
Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,
Waked to weariness of weeping;
Open to thy soul's one Lover,
And thy night of dreams is over;
The true gifts He brings have seeming
More than all thy faded dreaming.

Did she open? Doth she-will she?
So, as wondering we behold,
Grows the picture to a sign,
Pressed upon your soul and mine;
For in every breast that liveth
Is that strange, mysterious door,-
The forsaken and betangled,
Ivy-gnarled and weed bejangled
Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;-

There the pierced hand still knocketh,

And with ever patient watching,
With the sad eyes true and tender,
With the glory-crowned hair,

Still a God is waiting there.

AN ODE TO INDEPENDENCE HALL.
J. STEVENSON MITCHELL.

No sculptured marble greets the pilgrim's view;
No gothic dome the ambient zephyrs fan;
No golden spires salute the ethereal blue-
Shrine of enfranchised man!

Thou Mecca of a freedom-loving land!
Voice to all nations struggling to be free!
May thy plain walls in after ages stand,
And tyrants bend to thee.

Ye who have wandered o'er historic climes,
Who've stood upon the seven hills of Rome,
And drank the music of St. Peter's chimes,
And trod beneath its dome;

Ye who have stood on Britain's royal isle,
And paused enraptured with some sacred hymn
Which echoed through St. Paul's aspiring pile,
Like answering cherubim;

Ye who have trod the imperial streets of Gaul—
Where waved of old the golden oriflamme-
And paused to catch the vespers as they fall
And float from Notre Dame;-

Forget not this memorial of our love-
This silent witness of a noble deed,—
Hallowed beyond all storied piles of yore,
By freedom's bond decreed!

Thy ancient bell, from out its brazen throat,
Still echoes music that it pealed of yore;
And through the listening ages it shall float,
A hope for evermore.

CENTENNIAL ORATION.-HENRY ARMITT BROWN.

Peroration from the oration delivered upon the occasion of the Centennial Annivrsary of the meeting of the first Colonial Congress in Carpenter's Hall, Philadelphia.

The conditions of life are always changing, and the experience of the fathers is rarely the experience of the sons. The temptations which are trying us are not the temptations which beset their footsteps, nor the dangers which threaten our pathway the dangers which surrounded them.

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