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Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I

only knew which way A child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven

Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay: I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch,

you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you

did, you dirty deceitful young drab! The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my

own blessed motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making lit

tle dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all

the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead

kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as

sure as ever the clock strikes one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost, and the

beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't

be making a mob in the street; O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor

little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a

parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'raps been inviggled away up a

court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself

for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patched, and

red plush, they was once his father's best pair. His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that

might have gone with the rest; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and

a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and

not quite so much jagged at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a

tit, and you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some

old beggar woman in want of an orphan Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather

see him laid out in his coffin ! Do, good people, move on! such a rabble of boys! I'll break

every bone of 'em I come near; Go home-you’re spilling the porter-go home,- Tommy

Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my

name was Betty Morgan ;

Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along

of following a monkey and an organ; O my Billy-my head will turn right round-if he's got kid

dynapped with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the

outlandish tatterdemalions. Billy-where are you, Billy?- I'm as hoarse as a crow, with

screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And sha'n't have half a voice, no more I sha’n’t, for crying

fresh herrings to-morrow. 0 Billy, you're bursting iny heart in two, and my life won't

be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folks' darlin's, and none of mine, playing

like angels in our alley! And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at

the old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there ain't

no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only

knowed where to run; Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month

through stealing a penny bun, The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill

me raily To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the

Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search

for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty be

haved, from one end to t’other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a moth

er ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't

been washed for a week; As for hair, though it's red, it's the most nicest hair when

I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only

bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though a little

cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good in, though the bridge is broke,

by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very

large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on

the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways-but oh, I nev

er, never shall see him no more! Oh dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back

from death's door!

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Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was

at twenty a penny, And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in

plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and,

drat him, made a seize of our hog. It's no use to send the crier to cry him about, he's such a

blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to tind a lost child, he was guz

zling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted

mother and father about town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home

to your best of mothers! I'm scared when I think of them cabroleys, they drive so,

.they'd run over their own sisters and brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to

stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when

the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine,

to clap my two longin' eyes on his face, For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come

back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two motherly arms,

and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was,-but a child

don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young

wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and

I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

ACROSS THE RIVER.-Lucy LARCOM.

When for me the silent oar

Parts the Silent River,
And I stand upon the shore

Of the strange Forever,
Shall I miss the loved and known?
Shall I vainly seek mine own?
Mid the crowd that come to meet

Spirits sin-forgiven,-
Listening to their echoing feet

Down the streets of heaven,-
Shall I know a footstep rear
That I listen, wait for, here?

Then will one approach the brink,

With a hand extended ?-
One whose thoughts I loved to think

Ere the veil was rended,
Saying, “ Welcome! we have died,
And again are side by side.”.

Saying, “I will go with thee,

That thou be not lonely,
To yon hills of mystery ;

I have waited only
Until now to climb with thee
Yonder hills of mystery.”

Can the bonds that make us hero

Know ourselves immortal,
Drop away, the foliage sear,

At life's inner portal?
What is holiest below
Must forever live and grow.

I shall love the angels well,

After I have found them, In the mansions where they dwell,

With the glory round them; But at first, without surprise, Let me look for human eyes.

Step by step our feet must go

Up the holy mountain ; Drop by drop within us flow

Life's unfailing fountain. Angels sing with crowns that burn; Shall we have a song to learn ?

He who on our earthly path

Bids us help each other, Who his Well-beloved hath

Made our Elder Brother, -Will but clasp the chain of love Closer, when we meet above.

Therefore dread I not to go

O'er the Silent River;
Death, thy hastening oar I know:

Bear me, thou life-giver,
Through the waters, to the shore
Where mine own have gone before.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.-ALICE CARY,

O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw

Shapes of things that you never saw ? Ay? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown,

The picture must not be over-bright,

Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn

Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room

Under their tassels,-cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,-
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)

These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide, -
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush :

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,

Roses crowiling the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and corintields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face

That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:

Yet one word tells you all I would say, -
She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir; one like me,

The other with a clearer brow,

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