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I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a | The handsomest fellow ! - Heaven bless him! . promise that Harry made her,
I setting the girls all wild to possess him, --“ To build her a house all full of doors,” and live with his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and with her there some day;
cigars in those pretty lips ! But Ada is growing lank and thin,--they say | O, do you think he will quite forget me, --do you she will have a peaked chin,
į believe he will ever regret me? And I think had nearly outgrown her “first Will he wish the twenty years back again, or love" before I came in the way.
deem this an idle myth, She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed While I shall sometimes push up my glasses,
Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can and sigh as my baby-lover passes, make her,
And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as And a Sunday hat with feathers ; but it does n't I look at Mr. Smith !
matter how she is dressed, For Harry - sweetest of earthly lispers— has
said in my ear, in loudest whispers, With his dear short arms around my neck, that he “likes the grown-up bonnets best.”
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.
[Thom gives the following narrative as to the origin of “The He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his
| Mitherless Bairn": “When I was livin'in Aberdeen, I was limping private preference is a sawyer,
roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean.
A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', And counselors, not less than carpenters, live
*Ye hussie, will ye lick a initherless bairn!' I hobbled up the stair by “sawdust” and by bores.
and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'] It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial blockhead through,
WHEN a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, always panel doors.
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if |’T is the puir doited loonie, --- the mitherless his hammer and will be good,
bairn ! If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy then,
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's need Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare
ing, whether his business is planing or plead head; ing,
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and An’ litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. stand at the head of you men!
| Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover I say to him sometimes, “My dearest Harry, we
there, haven't money enough to marry”;
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; He has sixty cents in his little tin “bank,” and
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an’stern, a keepsake in his drawer ;
That lo'e nae the locks o'the mitherless bairn! But he always promises, “ I'll get plenty — I'll find where they make it, when I'm twenty ;
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed I'll go down town where the other men do, and
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is bring it out of the store.”
laid; And then he describes such wonderful dresses,
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk
Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o’his birth, cushions and rings of gold,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; And I think what a fond true breast to dream on,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn what a dear, brave heart for a woman to
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for lo speak him na harshly, —he trembles the some baby 'a twelvemonth old !
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry In their dark hour o anguish the heartless shall a young man, gay and naughty,
learn Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driv- That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! ing fast horses and cracking whips,
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
field, To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
...! The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it H.
1 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were with sighs.
glowing! 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; |
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, Would you know the spell ?-a mother sat there !
| And dripping with coolness, it rose from the And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, In childhood's hour I lingered near
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give How sweet from the green mossy brim to reTo fit me to die, and teach me to live.
ceive it, She told me that shame would never betide, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide; Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to She taught me to lisp iny earliest prayer,
leave it, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation, I sat, and watched her many a day,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And I almost worshiped her when she siniled, ! And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
well; Year's rolled on, but the last one sped,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. And I learned how much the heart can bear,
SAMUEL WOODWORTH. When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
’T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now,
I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
Came peeping in at morn.
Nor brought too long a day;
Had borne my breath away!
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
Those flowers made of light !
And where my brother set
The tree is living yet!
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my
childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild
stood by it,
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
To swallows on the wing ;
That is so heavy now,
The fever on my brow !