Then turning up his hazel eyes, Which questioning light shone through, He said, "that prayer sounds very nice,-- Is He your Father too?"

"Yes, He is mine as well as yours, And Lord of all you see."

"Far as I know, if that be so, My brother you must be."

"Yes we are brethren, every one, All equal in His sight."

"Well, I will _try_ to think so, sir, But I can't believe it _quite_.

"It seems so strange that you should be Akin to such as me, For you are rich, and great, and grand And I'm so poor you see."

"But it is true, my little lad, And if to Him you pray, He'll make your little heart feel glad,-- He'll turn you not away."

"Well, if that's so, I'll learn to pray, I'll take your kind advice,-- But if you are my brother, Give me just one thicker slice.

"And if He's Father of us all,-- Now, as I'm going home, From your big share perhaps you'll spare Your widowed sister some?"

The Dean's face wore a puzzled look, And then a look of joy; Then said, "'tis you the teacher are, I am the scholar, boy."

That night the widow's eyes were wet, But they were tears of joy,-- 'When she beheld the load of things Brought by her little boy.

And Jimmy danced upon the flags, And cried, "there's few have seen, And ever thought that in these rags, Stands brother to a Dean."

I Would not Live Alway.

"I would not live alway,"

Why should I wish to stay, Now, when grown old and grey, Enduring slow decay?

When power to do has fled, 'Twere better to be dead-- The tree that's ceased to bear, Has no right to be there.

Who cares to keep a bird Whose note is never heard?

Yet many things abound, Enc.u.mbering the ground; Useless, unsightly wrecks, That only serve to vex The sight of those who boast All that those wrecks have lost.

If G.o.d gave me this life,-- Now, when worn out with strife, May I not give it back And move from out the track?

This world is not for drones!

The right to live each owns; But he to earn that right Must work with all his might.

When power to do has fled, 'Twere better to be dead.

The dog has had its day;-- "I would not live alway."

Too Late.

How should I know, That day when first we met, I Would be a day I never can forget?

And yet 'tis so.

That clasp of hands that made my heartstrings thrill, Would not die out, but keeps vibrating still?

How should I know?

How should I know, That those bright eyes of thine Would haunt me yet?

And through Grief's dark cloud shine, With that same glow?

That thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love, Should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove?

How should I know?

How should I know That one so good and fair, Would condescend To spare a thought, or care, For one so low?

I dared not hope such bliss could be in store;-- How dare I who had known no love before?

How should I know?

But now I know-- Too late, alas! the prize Can ne'er be mine, Yet do I hug the pain, And bless the blow, Knowing I love, and am loved in return, Is bliss undying whilst Life's lamp shall burn.

Yes, now I know.

On the Banks of the Calder.

On Calder's green banks I stroll sadly and lonely, The flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet, The river's low murmur seems whispering only, The name of the laddie I came here to meet.

He promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom, He'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest, And a sprig of May blossom he put on my bosom, As his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest.

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie?

Oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free?

He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,--my Johnnie,--I'm waiting for thee.

The night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie, The stars now peep out from the blue vault above; Oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie?

Oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love?

I know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue,-- And his tones were sincere when he called me his own; Oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true,-- But why does he leave me to wander alone?

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie?

Oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free?

He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,--my Johnnie, I'm waiting for thee.

The moon now is up,--the owl hoots in the wood, The trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black; The tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood,-- And my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back.

Oh, woe, woe is me! Did he mean to betray?

Must my ruin the price of his perfidy be?

No, the river shall hide me and bear me away; Cold Calder receive me, I'm coming to thee.

Oh, where is her laddie? Oh, where is her Johnnie?

Oh, where is her laddie that treated her so?

But the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever, And his base heart shall never more happiness know.

Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.

Sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells, How dear you are; Bringing the scent of shady dells, To me from far; Telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,-- Nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers!