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I've seen the waves as blue as air,
I "ve seen them green as grass;
From Grangemouth to the Bass.
I've seen it white as snow;
When the French ride at the Nore,
I never liked the landsman's life,
The earth is aye the same;
My vessel for my hame.
The farm that pays no fee;
So gladly through the sea.
When sails hang flapping on the masts
When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed.
The sun is up, and round Inchkeith
The breezes softly blaw;
Awa, my bairns, awa!
An' bright the fire will low,
An' death comes to our door.
THE WRECKED SHIP.
now, lashed on by destiny severe,
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death,
In vain the cords and axes are prepared,
Her giant hulk the dread concussion feels,
JOHN MAYNARD was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest and intelligent pilot. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One sumtyjjf' mer afternoon — at that time those steamers seldom carried boats — smoke was seen • ascending from below, and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire." Then "Fire! fire! fire!" resounded on shipboard.
All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of resin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?" "Seven miles." "How long before we can reach there?" "Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." "Is there any danger?" "Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go forward, if you would save your lives !''
Passengers and crew — men, women and children — crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet: "John Maynard!" "Aye, aye, sir!" "Are you at the helm?" "Aye, aye, sir!" "How does she head?" "Southeast by east, sir." "Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain.
Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out: "John Maynard!" The response came feebly this time, "Aye, aye, sir!" "Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said. "By God's help, I will."
The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth set; with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God.
John B. Gough.
THE BURNING OF CHICAGO.
FOUND a Rome of common clay." imperial
Caesar cried; "I left a Rome of marble!" No other Rome beside!
The ages wrote their autographs along the sculptured stone —
The golden eagles flew abroad — Augustan splendors shone —
They made a Roman of the world! They trailed the classic robe,
And flung the Latin toga around the naked globe!
li I found Chicago wood and clay," a mightier Kaiser said,
Then flung upon the sleeping mart his royal robes of red.
And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monument and spire
Put on the crimson lively of dreadful Kaiser Fire! The stately piles of polished stone were shattered into sand,
Aud madly drove the dread simoon, and snowed them on the land!
And rained them till the sea was red, and scorched the
wings of prayer! Like thistle-down ten thousand homes went drifting
through the air,
And dumb Dismay walked hand in hand with frozeneyed Despair!
Chicago vanished in a cloud — the towers were storms of sleet,
Lo! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral street!
The night burned out between the days I The ashen
hoar-frost fell, As if some demon set ajar the bolted gates of hell, And let the molten billows break the adamantine
And roll the smoke of torment up to smother out the
The low, dull growl of powder-blasts jHst dotted off the din,
As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that
might have been! The thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents
The trumpet's clangor died away a wild bee's drowsy hum,
And breakers beat the empty world that rumbled like a drum.
O cities of the Silent Land! O Graceland and Rosehill!
No tombs without their tenantry? The pale host sleeping still?