THE EASY WIFE.

There's just one thing a man can have
In all this world of woe and strife,
That makes the business not too bad,
And that one thing's an easy wife.
Don't fancy that I love my girl

For rosy cheeks and raven hair;
She holds my heart because she laughs,-
Because she laughs and doesn't care.

I put my boots just where it suits,
And find them where put them, too;
That is the thing, you must allow,
A chap can very seldom do.

I leave my papers on my desk;
She never dusts them in a heap,
Or takes to light the kitchen stove
The very one I waut to keep.
On winter nights my cosy dame
Will warm her toes before the fire;
She never scolds about the lamp,
Or wants the wick a trifle higher.
On Sundays she is not so fine

But what her ruffles I can hug;
I light my pipe just where I please,
And spill the ashes on the rug.
The bed is never filled with "shams,"-
A thing some women vilely plan
To worry servants all to death

And spoil the temper of a man.
She lets me sleep to any hour,
Nor raises any horrid din
If it just happens, now and then,
To be quite late when I come in.
I tell you, Jack, if you would wed,
Just get a girl who lets things run;
She'll keep her temper like a lamb,
And help you on to lots of fun.
Don't look for money, style, or show,
Or blushing beauty, ripe and rare;
Just take the one who laughs at fate,-

Who laughs, and shows she doesn't care.

You think, perhaps, our household ways
Are just perchance a little mixed;
Oh! when they get too horrid bad,
We stir about and get things fixed.
What compensation has a man

Who earns his bread by sweat of brow,
If home is made a battle ground,

And life one long, eternal row?

THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.-JAMES Hogg.

"Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen;
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond;
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay;
Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowled the Macgregor, then. silent and sullen,
He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan :
"Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest.”

Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying,
Three days round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon;
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,

We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here." "The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him;

This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,

And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

"Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind; Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind, Nor ever receded a foot from the van,

Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man:
But I've sworn, by the cross, by my God, and my all!
An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall-
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.

"Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,
When entered a lady, with visage so wan,
And looks such as never were fastened on man.
I knew her, O brother! I knew her too well!
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell

As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained,
So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,

I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while,
Though, proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle,
With length of existence no man can enjoy,
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly!
The thrice threatened pangs of last night to forego,
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,

The present to shun and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

"She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone,
The glory and name of Macgregor were gone;
That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo,
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon,
Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun:

That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.

A parting embrace, in one moment she gave;
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave!
Then flitting illusive, she said, with a frown,
'The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!'

"Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind; The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind, Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the fieldSee, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield! Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side. This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue; Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue; Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,

When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon thro' the storm of the night,
Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:
It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed-
"No! not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone:
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!

O'er mountains inverted, the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching;
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,

No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill:

Young Malcolm, at distance couched, trembling the whileMacgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem; Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom; The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if born on the waves of the sea. Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen; The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den, Fled panting away, over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke
As slumbering he dozed on the shelve of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.
Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;

"Macgregor! Macgregor!" he bitterly cried;

Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied.

He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream;
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away-
Macgregor is vanished forever and aye!

AT THE ORATORIO.

"Twas at the oratorio

In Music Hall a year ago

(I think 'twas the “Creation”), Two ladies sat in front of me, Who carried on incessantly

A whispered conversation.

Though chorus, solos, all were fine,
And Gerster's arias divine,

They never seemed to hear them;
But, breathless, chattered on-I trust
Unconscious of the deep disgust
Of all the people near them.

At length a movement soft and slow
Changed to a loud prestissimo,
The mighty organ shivered-

With one tremendous choral sweep
The music burst; then into deep,
Intensest silence quivered.

And in that hush, profound and still,
A woman's voice, high-pitched and shrill,
Was plainly heard to utter,

In tones adjusted to the roar
Of music that had gone before,
"Why! we fry ours in butter!"

HIGHER!

Higher! It is a word of noble import. It lifts the soul of man from low and groveling pursuits, to the achievement of great and noble deeds, and ever keeps the object of its aspiration in view, till his most sanguine expectations are fully realized.

Higher! lisps the infant that clasps its parent's knee, and makes its feeble effort to rise from the floor. It is the first inspiration of childhood to burst the narrow confines of the cradle, and to exercise those feeble, tottering limbs, which are to walk forth in the stateliness. of manhood.