With handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price?

"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, And take to allotments and schools,

But you've run up a debt that will never
Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

"In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day,
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;

"When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughters' bread,
And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;

"When your youngest, the mealy - mouthed rector,

Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, You will find in your God the protector Of the freeman you fancied your slave."

She looked at the tuft of clover,

And wept till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still,

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.

A weary sight to see;

Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife,

'They're dear fish to me!

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,
And when the storm blew o'er,
My husband, and my three brave sons,
Lay corpses on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years,
A childless widow three;

I maun buy them now to sell again,
They're dear fish to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door,

What was 't upon her cheek? What was there rising in her breast,

That then she scarce could speak?

"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, And pity's gathering tear;

"Come in, come in, my poor woman, Ye're kindly welcome here.

"Ikentna o' your aching heart,

Your weary lot to dree;

I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words: 'They're dear fish to me!'"

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn

To pause ere they deny
The meed of honest toil, and think
How much their gold may buy,

How much of manhood's wasted strength,
What woman's misery,

What breaking hearts might swell the cry: "They 're dear fish to me!"

ANONYMOUS.

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR

DEAD.

FROM "THE PRINCESS.'

HOME they brought her warrior dead : She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said,

"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness,— He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from
Ireland;

He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

He fought at Cremona, - she hears of his story;
He fought at Cassano, — she's proud of his glory,
Yet sadly she sings "Shule Aroon" all the day,
"O, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."

Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,

I feel I am alone.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found "T was vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,
"These may she never share!
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O, pray, too, for me!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE students were travelling over the Rhine; They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign;

"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? And where is that dear little daughter of thine?"

"My beer and wine are fresh and clear;
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier!"
And when to the chamber they made their way,
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay.
The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised,
And on her pale face he mournfully gazed :
"Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said,
"I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid!"

The second he slowly put back the shroud,
And turned him away and wept aloud :
"Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier!
Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!"

The third he once more uplifted the veil,
And kissed her upon her mouth so pale :
"Thee loved I always; I love still but thee;
And thee will I love through eternity!"

UHLAND. Translation of J. S. DWIGHT.

HIGHLAND MARY.

YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear me weeping;
Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The night I'll mak' it narrow,
For a' the livelang winter night
I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O, came ye by yon water-side?
Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or came you by yon meadow green,
Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

She sought him up, she sought him down,
She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,

She found him drowned in Yarrow!

ANONYMOUS.

JOHN LOGAN.

WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW. Down in yon garden sweet and gay Where bonnie grows the lily,

I heard a fair maid sighing say,

"My wish be wi' sweet Willie! "Willie's rare, and Willie 's fair,

And Willie's wondrous bonny; And Willie hecht to marry me

Gin e'er he married ony.

"O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth

And tell me how he fareth!

"O, tell sweet Willie to come doun And hear the mavis singing,

And see the birds on ilka bush

And leaves around them hinging.

"The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
And gentle throat sae narrow;
There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

"O, Leader haughs are wide and braid,
And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
There Willie hecht to marry me
If e'er he married ony.

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me! "O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more!" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" JOHN LOWE

There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young

gold.

So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.
There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ROBERT BROWNING.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, ·
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,