There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea, Here's to the Saint that blessed it!

And here's to the billows wild and free That for centuries have caressed it!

Here's to the day when the men that roam Send longing eyes o'er the water!

Here's to the land that still spells home To each loyal son and daughter!

Here's to old Ireland--fair, I ween, With the blue skies stretched above her!

Here's to her shamrock warm and green, And here's to the hearts that love her!

LESLEY.

From the little bald head to the two little feet, You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet, But not for this do I love you.

You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint, A creature of moods--no tiresome saint-- You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint, But not for this do I love you.

You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight, But not for this do I love you.

That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing, And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing, Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring, But not for this do I love you.

Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear, The secret I'll whisper right into your ear, Because you are _you_ do I love you,

Because you are you, just you, oh, my own, Because you are Lesley, this reason alone Will do for us, darling, until you are grown, Because you are _you_ do I love you.

THE TRYST.

The harvest moon in yellow haze Is steeping all the sea and land, Is kindling paths and shining ways Around the hills, across the sand.

And there are only thou and I-- O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note The glory of the sea and sky, I see a softly rounded throat,

A face uplifted, pure and sweet, Two blue eyes filled with trust and love; Enough, the sea sings at our feet, The harvest moon sails just above.

A GOOD WOMAN.

Her eyes are the windows of a soul Where only the white thoughts spring, And they look, as the eyes of the angels look, For the good in everything.

Her lips can whisper the tenderest words That weary and worn can hear, Can tell of the dawn of a better morn Till only the cowards fear.

Her hands can lift up the fallen one From an overthrow complete, Can take a soul from the mire of sin And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

And she can walk wherever she will-- She walketh never alone.

The work she does is the Master's work, And G.o.d guards well His own.

DESPAIR.

We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray, When the golden sunbeams are all abroad; We sober a moment, then softly say: The world still lies in the hand of G.o.d.

We watch it stealthily creeping o'er The threshold leading to somebody's soul; A shadow, we cry, it cannot be more When faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal.

A ghost that comes stealing its way along, Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air, But who that is young and glad and strong Fears for a moment to meet Despair?

To this heart of ours we have thought so bold All uninvited it comes one day-- Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold, And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA.

Day of battle and day of blood Found you steady and strong, I ween; Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf, Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.

Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day Nameless graves upon veldt and plain, Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true, Sons of our soil, who thought it gain

To fight and win, or to fight and fall!

Strong of purpose, you took your stand, Proved with your life-blood red and warm Canada's faith in the Motherland!

Brave boys, our boys, this have you done, Drawn us closer, and bound us fast; One are we with the Isle in the sea, One in the future, the present, the past.

Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe, Honor and homage a mighty debt-- You proved our love and our loyalty-- The land that bore you will not forget!

Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons, The land that bore you will not forget!

THE BARLEY FIELDS.

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge, Saffron pale, where a star of white Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.

O the green of the barley fields grows deep, The breath of the barley fields grows rare; There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep-- The wind is holding high revel there,

Singing the song it has often sung-- Hark to the troubadour glad and bold: "Sweet is the earth when the summer is young And the barley fields are green and gold!"