THE THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down ; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of

the town;

For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went

down,

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and

brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands,

For those who will never come home to the

town.

But men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Kingsley.

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 grave-yard 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 nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Your's 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!

I'm 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 Gifford.

SHATTERED IDOLS.

Oh, shattered idols, framed of fragile glass,

We thought were jewels! Yet the day may

come

When every fragment which lies shattered now
May turn to sapphires in the land of rest.
We raise a palace through a waste of years,
And think its walls are crystal in the sun
Of this world's glory, flashing for an hour.
We look again, and see it was but ice
Which we have dwelt in, thawing fast away-
At every burning grasp it melts the more.
Blessed be he who leaves the treacherous hope
And into heavenly crystal turns the thaw.

Monro.