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But it was a happy cot!

Sorrow had but seldom enter'd;
Indeed, so dear they held the spot,

That out o' sight they scarcely ventured.
And weel they might; for it contain'd
What gie the thrills o' parents' joy,
Twa pretty babes, as e'er were wean'd,
An infant girl and lisping boy.
O' what happy hours they had,
Whether parted or thegether;
And at e'en were aye sao glad,

And cracked by the blazing heather.
Thus they lived for six short years:

Even early joys gave place to latter;
They heaved nae sigh o' anxious fears,
They knew nae change but loving better.
But, ah my heart! this coudna last,
Sickness seiz'd the happy father;
Now his weel-fed flock, unbless'd,
Stray'd unheeded o'er the heather.
But soon another little flock,

Bound to his aching heart more nearly,
Must meet and mourn a heavier shock,
A parent's death, they lov'd so dearly.-
William wasted fast away;

Here nae langer must he tarry ;
Yet griev'd not at his own decay:
He sigh'd and died, alas! for Mary!

Mary pined and fast declin'd,

Frae the day her William left her;

Comfort here she cou'dna find,

And felt that she must follow after:

Oft she tried to calm her grief;

To leave her babes did sore distract her;

But death alone could give relief :-
So Heaven became their sole protector.
-d, 1813.

ELEGY

ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME

TIME how quickly dost thou make me know, By sudden changes, this is not my home; Th' expanding wing will soon from earthly woe Convey my frame to moulder in the tomb,

A. M.

Thrice happy he who's left this earthly scene
And Jordan's depths hath passed safely through;
I long to launch, were all within serene,
And bid the irksome cares of life adieu.

While back along life's dreary path I cast
My eye, reviewing ills that now are gone;
And looking forward, fearing all's not past,
In pensive solitude I muse alone.

But vain to think to frustrate Heaven's decree,
To wave the blast, or fly life's billows o'er;
Happy the hour the tempest still'd shall be,
And I at rest on yonder peaceful shore.

H.

VIRTUE, THE BEST ORNAMENT,

'HE diamond's and the ruby's rays

THE

Shine with a milder finer flame,
And more attract our love and praise
Than beauty's self, if lost to fame.

But the sweet tear in Pity's eye

Transcends the di'mond's brightest beams;
And the soft blush of Modesty

More precious than the ruby seems.

The glowing gem, the sparkling stone,
May strike the sight with quick surprise;
But truth and innocence alone

Can still engage the good and wise.

No glitt'ring ornament or show
Will aught avail in grief or pain;
Only from inward worth can flow
Delight that ever shall remain.

NOTES TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Anonymous.

We have only room to say, that the favours of TS G. S. R. J. O. AM, A Constant Reader, A Friend to Merit, and the three Pieces by our obliging correspondent W. T. are received.

HADDINGTON

Printed and Published, MONTHLY, by G. MILLER & SON,

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"Then," said Mr CHURCHILL," you are resolved to keep LITTLE JACK with yourself?" "Always sir," answered SUSAN; "I could not live under the thought of sending away this destitute infant from me, or of letting him come upon the parish."

THE CHEAP MAGAZINE;

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AFFECTING STORY OF LITTLE JACK,

AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MOTHER.

MR CHURCHILL was returning home one day on horseback, after taking a ride about his own estate. As he passed by the wall of a burying ground belonging to a small village, he heard the groans of a person on the other side. This worthy gentleman had a heart too full of compassion to hesitate in flying to the relief of the unfortunate person whom he heard groan. He alighted, and giving his horse to the servant who followed him, sprung over the enclosure of the burying ground. He stood on tiptoe, and looking all round, at length perceived in a corner, at the farthest end, a grave covered with earth that was still quite fresh. Upon this grave lay, at his fúll length, a child about five years VOL. I.

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old, who was weeping. Mr Churchill approached him with looks of kindness, and said to him, "What dost thou do there, my little friend?"

"I am calling my mother," replied the child. "They laid her here yesterday, and she does not get up."

"That is because she is dead, my poor child," observed Mr Churchill.

"Yes," said the child, "they say that she is dead, but I cannot believe it. She was so well the other day, when she left me with old SUSAN our neighbour; she told me she was to come back, but she does not come. My father is gone away too, and my little brother, and now the other little boys of the town won't have me."

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"Won't have you? why so?" enquired Mr Churchill. "I do not know," answered the child; “but when I want to go along with them, they drive me away and leave me by myself. And they say naughty things, too, about father and mother. That is what vexes me most of all. O mammy, get up, get up."

my

Mr Churchill's eyes were filled with tears.

that your father is

"You say

gone away, and your brother too; where are they gone?"

"I do not know" said the boy "where my father is; and my little brother went away yesterday to another town. There came a gentleman all in black, just like our parson, and took him away."

"And where do you live now?" said Mr Churchill. "With our neighbour Susan :" replied he. "I am to be there until my mother comes back, as she promised me. I love my other mammy Susan very well; but [pointing to the grave] I love my mammy that is here a great deal better. O mother, mother! why do you lie so long? when will you get up?"

"My

"My poor child," said Mr Churchill, "you call her in vain, for you will never awake her."

"Well then," said the child, "I will lie down here, and sleep by her. Ah! I saw her when they put her into a great chest to carry her away. Oh! how white she was ! and how cold! I will lie down here and sleep by her."

Mr Churchill could no longer refrain from tears. He stooped down, took the child up in his arms, and kissing him tenderly, said, "What is your name, my poor little fellow?"

"They call me Jackey," said the little fellow, "when I am good, and when I am a bad boy they call me you Jack.

Mr Churchill, though in tears, smiled at this answer. “Will you take me to Susan?" "O yes, yes, Sir," answered the child; and running before Mr Churchill as fast as his little legs could go, conducted him to Susan's door. Susan was not a little surprised on seeing a gentleman enter her cottage with little Jack, who pointing to her, and running to hide his face in her lap, said "That is she; that is my other mammy." She knew not what to think of so extraordinary a visit. Mr Churchill, however, did not leave her long in suspense. He expressed to her the situation in which he had found the child, and the compassion that he felt for him; and at the same time requested her to favour him with every information concerning the parents of little Jack. Susan bade him be seated, and placing herself close by him, began thus:

"The father of this child is a shoemaker, whose house joins miné. He is an honest, sober, laborious man, under thirty, and a comely person. His wife was a handsome woman, but did not get her health well. Withal she was very careful, and a good housewife. They were married about seven years ago, lived vastly well together, and would have made the happiest couple in the world, if Ss 2

they

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