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, my boys, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "Oh! for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the swelling breeze, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud : The wind is wakening loud, my boys, 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? Is this a time to think o' wark? For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck about the house, Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay, 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, Mak' a' their shoon as black as sloes, There are twa hens into the crib, Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, My turkey slippers I'll put on, 261 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue, And will I see his face again? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought There's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's nae luck about the house, ROBIN REDBREAST. Mickle. Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! Our swallows flown away; 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; |