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What's your boy's name, good wife,

And in what good ship sailed he?"

HOW'S MY BOY?

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman, Yonder down in the town;

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor:
Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no.

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton.'"

"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him over the town.

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy - my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor; I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her."

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

"How's my boy — my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother.

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him and no other.

How's my boy-my boy?"

SYDNEY DOBELL

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

SHE'S gane to dwall in Heaven, my lassie!
She's gane to dwall in Heaven:
Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God,
For dwallin' out o' Heaven!

O what'll she do in Heaven, my lassie?
O what'll she do in Heaven?

She'll mix her ain thochts wi' angels' sangs,
An' mak them mair meet for Heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie :

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie !

Low there thou lies!

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,

Nor frae it will arise.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie :
Fu' soon I'll follow thee.

Thou's left me naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness' sel' wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cauld face, my lassie,
I looked on thy death-cauld face:
Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fadin' in its place.

i looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie:
I looked on thy death-shut eye;

An' a lovelier light in the brow o' Heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy an' calm, my lassie:
Thy lips were ruddy an' calm;

But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven
To sing the evening psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie:
There's naught but dust now mine.
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay ahin'?

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Contending still with men untaught and wild,
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift, my precious flower was given,
A very summer fragrance was its life;

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,
When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart:
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home-solace nerved me for my part,
And of the babe I was exceeding glad.

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying;
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!)
And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying,
Took gently home the child of my delight.