Falsehood, treachery, sickness, pain,-- I have endured, yet hopefully stand Strong in the thought I have lived not in vain.

Had I won but this treasure,--this lilly-white hand.

Shut Out.

_"The drunkard shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven."_

Far, far beyond the skies, The land of promise lies; When Death our souls release, A home of love and peace, Has been prepared for all, Who heed the gracious call, Drunkards that goal ne'er win,-- They cannot enter in.

Time noiselessly flits by, Eternity draws nigh; Will the fleet joy you gain, Compensate for the pain, That through an endless day, Will wring your soul for aye?

Slave to beer, rum, or gin, You cannot enter in.

Dash down the flowing bowl, Endanger not thy soul; Ponder those words of dread, That G.o.d Himself has said.

Hurl the vile tempter down, And win and wear the crown, Drunkard, forsake thy sin, Thou mayst then enter in.

Charming May.

"O! charming May!"

That's what they say.

The saying is not new,-- The saying is not true;-- O! May!

Bare fields and icebound streams, Sunshine in fitful gleams, May smile Beguile, And dispel poets' dreams.

Was ever May so gay As what the poets say?

If so, We know, We live not in their day.

A cosy coat and wrap, You may not find mishap-- Propo You know When comes the next cold snap.

A heavy woollen scarf, Strong boots that reach the calf,-- Away we go Through snow and slush and wet,-- And can we once forget 'Tis May? Oh, no!

Best is the old advice Which we so oft despise, "Cast not a clout Till May goes out."

May like a maiden, lies.

A Maypole dance.--O, my!

Such sport is all "my eye,"

Just try, I tried it and I know, The snow, the blow, The aching toes, the smarting nose.

I all defied, And loudly cried "Come on, Each one, Be gay! be gay!--'Tis May! Tis May"

They laughed and shook the head, And this is what they said, "Old Skunk, he's drunk."

Still we do love her so,-- Her truth? O, no!

She's like some fancy fickle, She lands you in a pickle, You grin and bear, Maybe you swear In manner most alarming, And yet--Sweet May is charming.

Who Cares?

Down in a cellar cottage In a dark and lonely street, Was sat a widow and her boy, With nothing left to eat.

The night was wild and stormy, The wind howl'd round the door, And heavy rain drops from above Kept dripping to the floor.

They had no candle burning, The fire was long since dead, A wretched heap of straw was all They had to call a bed.

They nestled close together, On the cold and dampy ground, And as the storm rush'd past them, They trembled at the sound.

"Mother," the poor boy whispered, "May I not go again?

I do not heed the wind, mother, I'm not afraid of rain.

"May I not go and beg, mother, For you are very ill; Some one will give me something, Mother, I'm sure they will?

"Do let me go and try, mother, You know I won't be long; I did feel weak and tired, mother, But now I feel quite strong.

"Give me a kiss before I go, And pray whilst I'm away, That I may meet some Christian friend, Who will not say me nay."

"Dear boy, the night is stormy, Your ragged clothes are thin, And soon the heavy rain-drops Will wet you to the skin.

"I would go out myself, boy, But, oh! I cannot rise, I am too weak to dry the tears That roll down from my eyes.

"I fear I soon must go, love, And leave my boy alone.

And oh! what can you do, love, When I am dead and gone?"

"Mother, you set me weeping, Don't talk in such a strain, Your tears are worse for me to bear Than all the wind and rain.

"Wait till I'm rather bigger, And then I'll work all day, And shan't we both be happy When I bring you home my pay?

"Then you shall have some tea, mother, And bread as white as snow; You won't be sickly then, mother, You'll soon get well, I know.

"And when that time shall come, mother, You shall have some Sunday clothes, Then you can go to church, mother-- You cannot go in those.

"And then I'll take you walking, And you shall see the flowers, And sit upon the sweet green gra.s.s Beneath the trees for hours.

"But I will haste away, mother, I won't be long--good bye!"

"Farewell, my boy," she murmured, Then she laid her down to die.

The lamps were dimly shining, And the waters in a flood, Came rolling o'er the pavement, Where the little beggar stood.

He listened for a footstep, Then he hurried on the street, But the wind roared with such fury, Till he scarce could keep his feet.

A few there were who pa.s.sed him, But they had no time to stay; They did not even stop to look, But hurried quick away.

He pa.s.sed the marts of business, Where the gaslights were ablaze, And saw the countless heaps of things Displayed to meet the gaze.