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qanufacture of Ponie: · 246

THE

FIFTH 'STANDARD'READER.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE WAY FOR BILLY AND ME.
WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river, and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thickest and greenest,
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the ineadow among the bay;
Up the water, and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.- Hogg.

THE BEGGAR MAN. AROUND the fire, one wintry night,

The farmer's rosy children sat; The faggot lent its blazing light,

And jokes went round, and careless chat. When, hark! a gentle hand they hear

Low tapping at the bolted door, And thus, to gain their willing ear,

A feeble voice was heard t'implore : “ Cold blows the blast across the moor;

The sleet drives hissing in the wind; Yon toilsome mountain lies before :

A dreary treeless waste behind. “My eyes are weak and dim with age;

No road, no path can I descry; And these poor rags ill stand the rage

Of such a keen, inclement sky. “So faint I am—these tottering feet

No more my feeble frame can bear ; My sinking heart forgets to beat,

And drifting snows my tomb prepare. “Open your hospitable door,

And shield me from the biting blast; Cold, cold it blows across the moor,

The weary moor that I have pass’d!” With hasty step the farmer ran,

And close beside the fire they place The poor, half-frozen beggar man,

With shaking limbs and pallid face. The little children flocking came,

And warm’d his stiff’ning hands in theirs ; And busily the good old dame

A comfortable mess prepares.
Their kindness cheer'd his drooping soul;

And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tears were seen to roll,

And told the thanks he could not speak.

The children, too, began to sigh,

And all their merry chat was o'er ;
And yet they felt, they knew not why,
More glad than they had done before.

Lucy Aikin.

THE PALMER. *
“ OPEN the door, some pity to show!

Keen blows the northern wind !
The glen is white with the drifted snow,

And the path is hard to find.
“No outlawt seeks your castle gate,

From chasing the king's deer;
Though even an outlaw's wretched state

Might claim compassion here.
A weary Palmer, worn and weak

I wander for my sin;
Oh, open, for Our Lady's sake!

A pilgrim's blessing win!
“The hare is crouching in her form,

The hart beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.
“You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,

Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,

Unless you pity me.
“ The iron gate is bolted hard,

At which I knock in vain ;
The owner's heart is closer barr’d,

Who hears me thus complain.
“Farewell, farewell ! and Heaven grant,

When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want

That's now denied to me!”

* Palmer, pilgrim or wanderer, going to some shrine to fulfil a vow.

+ Outlaw, one whose crimes have deprived him of the protection of the laws.

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,

And heard him plead in vain ;
But oft, amid December's storm,

He'll hear that voice again :
For lo! when through the vapors dank

Morn slone on Ettrick fair,
A corpse, amid the alders rank,
The Palmer welter'd there.

Sir W. Scott.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED

THEM.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,

“ The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father Willian replied,

“I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigor at first,

That I never might need them at last."
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,

“And pleasures with you pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

“I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,

“And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“I am cheerful, young man,” Father William replied,

“Let the cause thy attention engage:
In the days of my youth I remenaber'd my God,
And He has not forgotten my age.”

Southey.

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