AT THY PERIL. "AM I my brother's keeper?" Where wealth and splendour shine. "Art thou thy brother's keeper?" Life's page to thee reads fair, But gaze a little deeper, And other tales lie there. With sullen look and stolid, 'Mid wretchedness and strife, Beneath yon roof-tree squalid, How drags thy brother's life? "Art thou thy brother's keeper?" Swift as the viewless wind, Speeds on one mighty Reaper, His harvest sheaves to bind ; His earliest prey finds shelter These sordid roofs beneath, Where vice and misery swelter In hot-beds ripe for Death. "Art thou thy brother's keeper?" "Art thou thy brother's keeper?" Thou ART thy brother's keeper, A reckoning shall be taken, A reckoning stern and deep. Woe! unto those who waken Then first from careless sleep! Thou art thy brother's keeper. War, pestilence, and dearth, These besoms of the Sweeper, Invade the homes of earth. A blacken'd path and sterile Dost thou neglect the poor! --Household Words, 1854. THE MARINER'S WIFE. BUT are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel! When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop satin gown ; That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, For he's baith leal and true. For there's nae luck about the house, &c. Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat. And make their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been lang awa. For there's nae luck about the house, &c. There's twa fat hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair, Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, And mak' our table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa? For there's nae luck about the house, &c. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue, His breath's like caller air, His very foot there's music in 't When he comes up the stair. And shall I see his face again? For there's nae luck about the house, &c. Since Colin's weel and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave, And gin I live to keep him sae I'm bless'd aboon the lave.- For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE, 1734-1788. CAST IN THY MITE! THERE are abuses deep and loud, Like phantoms from the dead. |