They say

it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene;
"Why 'twas a very wicked thing,"
Said little Wilhelmine;

"Nay nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.

"And every body praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win ".
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin;

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."

Southey.

THE CROCUS;

OR, THE DUTY OF PATIENCE.

Down in my solitude under the snow,
Where nothing cheering can reach me;
Here, without light to see how to grow,
I'll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
Enclosed in so gloomy a dwelling;

My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,

While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

D

And the desert wastes must be

Untracked regions but for thee!

Mary Howitt.

TELL ME WHAT THE MILL DOTH SAY.

TELL me what the mill doth say,
Clitter, clatter, night and day;
When we sleep and when we wake,
Clitter, clatter, it doth make;
Never idle, never still,

What a worker is the mill !

Hearken what the rill doth say,
As it journeys every day;
Sweet as skylark on the wing,
Ripple, dipple, it doth sing;
Never idle, never still,

What a worker is the rill!

Listen to the honey-bee,
As it dances merrily

To the little fairy's drum;

Humming, drumming, drumming, drum,
Never idle, never still,

Humming, drumming, hum it will.

Like the mill, the rill, and bee,

Idleness is not for me.

What says cock-a-doodle-doo?
Up, there's work enough for you."
If I work, then, with a will,

It will be but playing still.

E. Capern.

CHILDHOOD'S TEARS.

THE tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;

When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.

Walter Scott.

THE DEAD SPARROW.'

TELL me not of joy! there's none,
Now my little sparrow's gone:

He would chirp and play, with me;
He would hang his wing awhile-
Till at length he saw me smile

Oh! how sullen he would be!
He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting, let it go again;
He from my lip

Would moisture sip;

He would from my trencher feed;
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry "phillip" when he'd done!

Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed?

Oh! how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt, though he did bite!
No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark and do
What I did; now 2 ruffle all

1 The author of this piece died in the year 1643, so that it is now more than 230 years old.

2 When the word now is repeated, as above, the first now signifies, at one time; the second now, at another time.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said while the sorrow was big at her heart-
"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog, Tray.'

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless
I had always a friend in my poor dog, Tray.

away,

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
And he licked me for kindness-my poor dog, Tray.

Though my wallet was scant 1 I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog, Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog, Tray.
Campbell.

THE BARLEY-MOWERS' SONG.

BARLEY-MOWERS, here we stand,
One, two, three, a steady band;
True of heart, and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest trim;

1 Though my wallet was scant-though my bag was illfurnished or nearly empty.

All a-row with spirits blithe, Now we whet the bended scythe, Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Side by side, now bending low,
Down the swaths of barley go,
Stroke by stroke, as true's 2 the chime
Of the bells, we keep in time;
Then we whet the ringing scythe,
Standing 'mong the barley lithe,3
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Barley-mowers must be true,
Keeping still the end in view,
One with all, and all with one,
Working on till set of sun,

Bending all with spirits blithe,
Whetting all at once the scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Day and night, and night and day,
Time, the mower, will not stay;
We may hear him in our path
By the falling barley swath;
While we sing with voices blithe,
We may hear his ringing scythe,

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Time, the mower, cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small
Learn we then for him to grow
Ready, like the field we mow,

'Swaths-lines of grass or corn cut down by the mower. 2 As true's-as true as.

8 Lithe-flexible, waving.