GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE.

(By permission of the Author.)
JONE, lad, though thi hand's
Like reawsty iron to feel,
There's very few i' th' lond,
Aw like to gripe as weel.
Thae'll never dee i' th' dumps,
Becose o' bein poor,

Thae good owd king o' trumps-
God bless thi silver yure!

Poo up to th' side o' th' hob,
An' rest thi weary shanks,
An' dunnot fret thi nob

Wi' fortin' an' her pranks :
These folk at's preawd an' rich
May tremble at her freawn;
They'n further far nor sich

As thee to tumble deawn.

Theaw never longs for wine,
Nor dainties rich an' rare,
For sich a life as thine

Can sweeten simple fare;
Contented with thi meal,
Thae's wit enough to know
That daisies liven weel

Where tulips connot grow.

An' though thi' clooas are rough,
An' gettin' very owd,
They'n onswer weel enough

To keep thi limbs fro' th' cowd:

A foo would pine away

I' sich a suit as thine,

But, thaer't the stuff to may
A fustian jacket fine.

A tattert clowt may lap
A very noble prize;
A king may be, by hap,
A beggar i' disguise,

When t'one has laft his feast,
And t'other done his crust,
Then, which is which at last,
These little piles o' dust?

An' though thi share o' life,
May seem a losin' game,
Thae's striven fair i' th' strife,
An' kept a dacent aim;
No meawse nooks i' thi mind,
Nor malice i' thi breast,
Thae's still bin true an' kind,

An' trusted fate wi' th' rest.

Through trouble, toil, an' wrung,
Thae's whiselt at thi wark,
An wrosel't life so lung,

Thi limbs are getten stark;
But; sich a heart as thine's
A never-failin' friend;
It cheer's a mon's decline,
An' keeps it sweet to th' end.

Thi banner 'll soon be furled,
An' then they'n ha' to tell,
“He travell❜t th' dirty world,
An' never soil't hissel'!"
An' when aw come to dee,
An' death has ta'en his tow,

Aw hope to leet o' thee-
God bless thi snowy pow!

E. Waugh

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE

B

PSALMIST.

TELL me not in mournful numbers
"Life is but an empty dream;"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

H. W. Longfellow.

THE THREE SONS.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould;

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together

walk;

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext, With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee-she teacheth him to

pray,

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years

like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful

brow,

I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on
my knee:

I do not think his light blue eye is like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever

been;

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the countryfolk who pass us in

the street

Will speak their joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet.

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and
hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must

dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were

given,

And then he bade farewell to earth and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he

doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not

reveal;

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,