She beats the taeds that live in stanes
An' fatten in vacuity.

They die when they 're exposed to air,
They canna thole the atmosphere;
But her! expose her onywhere,
She lives for her annuity!

The water-drap wears out the rock,
As this eternal jade wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It's pay me here, an' pay me there,
An' pay me, pay me evermair;
I'll gang demented wi' despair;
I'm charged for her annuity!

GEORGE OUTRAM (1805-1856).

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 never more 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

For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride: There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
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,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore,
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!
Im biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May
morn,

When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN (1807-1867).

THE MUSICAL FROGS.

BREKEKEKEX! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

How sweet ye sing! would God that I
Upon the bubbling pool might lie,

And sun myself to-day

With you! No curtained bride, I ween,
Nor pillowed babe, nor cushioned queen,
Nor tiny fay on emerald green,

Nor silken lady gay,
Lies on a softer couch. O Heaven!
How many a lofty mortal, riven

By keen-fanged inflammation,
Might change his lot with yours, to float
On sunny pond with bright green-coat,
And sing with gently-throbbing throat
Amid the croaking nation,

Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

Happy the bard who weaves his rhyme
Recumbent on the purple thyme,

In the fragrant month of June;
Happy the sage whose lofty mood
Doth with far-searching ken intrude
Into the vast infinitude

Of things beyond the moon ;
But happier not the wisest man
Whose daring thought leads on the van

Of star-eyed speculation,

Than thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing,
Within the green pond's reedy ring,
That with a murmurous joy dost sing
Among the croaking nation,

Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy

frogs!

Great Jove with dark clouds sweeps the sky,

Where thunders roll and lightnings fly,

And gusty winds are roaring;
Fierce Mars his stormy steed bestrides,
And, lashing wild its bleeding sides,
O'er dead and dying madly rides,

Where the iron hail is pouring.

'T is well; such crash of mighty powers Must be the spell may not be ours

To tame the hot creation.

But little frogs with paddling foot
Can sing when gods and kings dispute,

And little bards can strum the lute

Amid the croaking nation,

With Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

Farewell! not always I may sing
Around the green pond's reedy ring
With you, ye boggy muses!
But I must go and do stern battle

With herds of stiff-necked human cattle,
Whose eager lust of windy prattle
The gentle rein refuses.

Oh, if-but all such ifs are vain ;
I'll go and blow my trump again,
With brazen iteration;

And when, by logic's iron rule,

I've quashed each briskly babbling fool, I'll seek again your gentle school, And hum beside the tuneful pool Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE (1809).

OLD SOULS.

THE world, not hushed, lay as in trance,
It saw the future in its van,
And drew its riches in advance,

To meet the greedy wants of man ;
Till length of days, untimely sped,
Left its account unaudited.

The sun, untired, still rose and set,Swerved not an instant from its beat; It had not lost a moment yet,

Nor used in vain its light and heat; But, as in trance, from when it rose To when it sank, man craved repose.

A holy light that shone of yore

He saw, despised, and left behind: His heart was rotting to the core Locked in the slumbers of the mind, Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife, Could rouse it to a sense of life.

A cry was heard, intoned and slow,

Of one who had no wares to vend: His words were gentle, dull, and low, And he called out, "Old souls to mend !” He peddled on from door to door, And looked not up to rich or poor.

757

Stamped was the cross by that last blow
Again his cry, "Old souls to mend!"
Is heard in accents dull and low,
He pauses not to seek his pay—
That too will do another day.

One stops and says: "This soul of mine
Has been a tidy piece of ware,
But rust and rot in it combine,

And now corruption lays it bare.
Give it a look: there was a day
When it the morning hymn could say."

The tinker looks into his eye,

And there detects besetting sin, The decent old-established lie,

That creeps through all the chinks within, Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots, And like a worm's nest coil the roots.

Its flowers a deadly berry bear,

Whose seed, if tended from the pod, Had grown in beauty with the year, Like deodara drawn to God; Not as the dank and curly brake, That fosters venom for the snake.

The tinker takes the weed in tow,

And roots it out with tooth and nail;

His labor patient to bestow,

Lest like the herd of men he fail.

How best to extirpate the weed,
Has grown with him into a creed.

Go here, go there, they cite his word,
While he himself is nigh forgot.
He hears them use the name of Lord,

He present though they know him not. Though he be there, they vision lack, And talk of him behind his back.

Such is the Church and such the State. Both set him up and put him downBelow the houses of debate,

Above the jewels of the crown. But when "Old souls to mend !" he says, They send him off about his ways.

He is the humble, lowly one,

In coat of rusty velveteen,
Who to his daily work has gone;
In sleeves of lawn not ever seen.
No mitre on his forehead sticks:
His crown is thorny, and it pricks.

On it the dews of mercy shine;

From heaven at dawn of day they fell; And it he wears by right divine,

Like earthly kings, if truth they tell; And up to heaven the few to send, He still cries out, "Old souls to mend!" THOMAS GORDON HAKE (1809).

SUMMER LONGINGS.

AH! my heart is weary waiting

Waiting for the May

Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting

Waiting for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:

759

And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun!'"

There's a form at the casement-the form of her true-love

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's.shining brightly."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing,

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,

Steals up from her seat-longs to go and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand

Slower

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

LAST night among his fellow-roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore,
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke above his father's door
In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?

Yes, honor calls!-with strength like steel
He put the vision by;

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,
An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep untamed
The strong heart of her sons;

So let his name through Europe ring,-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810).

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Ir was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was queen of land and sea,

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.

'T was in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome,
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home;
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago?

Within that province far away

Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable-door
Across his path. He passed, for naught
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars, his only thought-
The air how calm, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why;
The world was listening, unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness, charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;

For in that stable lay, new-born,
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

ALFRED DOMMETT (1811).