THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging

sea;

And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face while she bended her

knee :

"Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me; And say thou would'st rather they'd watch o'er thy father,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father

to see;

And closely caressing her child, with a blessing, Said: "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

Lover.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast.

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

"Oh! for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the swelling breeze,
And white waves heaving high.
The white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud :
And hark, the music, mariners!—
The wind is wakening loud.

The wind is wakening loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free;

The hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

A. Cunningham.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel!

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Is this a time to think o' wark,

When Colin's at the door?

Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

There's nae Luck about the House.

Rise up, and make a clean fireside,

Put on the mickle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat.

Mak' a' their shoon as black as sloes,
Their stockings white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.

There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month or mair;

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

My turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockings pearl-blue—
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

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Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue,
His breath's like cauler air;
His very foot hae music in't,
As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought
In troth I'm like to greet.*

There's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa!

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Mickle.

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away;
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O, Robin, dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian Princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts;