I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head, I shall nevermore be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. The stairs are too steep, boys, I'm not used to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I'll rest my old head: 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead. SIDNEY DObell. But 't is not here, it is not here, OLD. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was summer, and we went to school, It was summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now I remember well, too well, that day! Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. Oftentimes the tears unbidden started When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, O, to me her name was always Heaven! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said, he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; "I have tottered here to look once more Ere the garden of my heart was blighted I have tottered here to look once more. "All the picture now to me how dear! "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. "There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; "I am fleeing, all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing, all I loved have fled. "Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. "Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. Those sweet voices silent now forever! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. "There my Mary blest me with her hand Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; There my Mary blest me with her hand. "I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core ! I have come to see that grave once more. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled ! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown! By the wayside, on a mossy stone. RALPH HOYT. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. AFAR in the desert I love to ride, The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; Aweary of all that is under the sun, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side., When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, |
