Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
An' naething now to big a new ane
O' foggage1 green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell2 and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cosie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought ta dwell,

Till crash! The cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To tholes the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch1 cauld!

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,5
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna sce,
I guess an' fear.

LOVE AND AGE.-(Thomas L. Peacock.) I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four;

When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wander'd hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly-

How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly:
But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you ;
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
Oh, then, I thought my heart was breaking,-
But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another :

No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression.
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;-
But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely,
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Then when my youngest child was christen'd:
But that was twenty years ago.

Time past. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild flower'd meads to play
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure—
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassion'd blindness
Has pass'd away in colder light,

I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night;
The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.

0

OPPORTUNITY.

JULIUS CÆSAR. ACT IV. SCENE III.

"There's a tide in the affairs of men

Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures."

THE CHOICE OF KING MIDAS.

(F. Godfrey Saxe.)

Midas, king of Phrygia, several thousand years ago, Was a very worthy monarch, as the classic annals show

You may read 'em at your leisure, when you have a mind to doze,

In the finest Latin verses, or in choice Hellenic prose.

Now this notable old monarch, king of Phrygia, as aforesaid

(Of whose royal state and character there might be vastly more said),

Though he occupied a palace, kept a very open door,

And had still a ready welcome for the stranger and the poor.

Now it chanced that old Silenus-who, it seems had lost his way

Following Bacchus through the forest, in the pleasant month of May

(Which wasn't very singular, for at the present day, The followers of Bacchus very often go astray)—

Came at last to good King Midas, who received him in his court,

Gave him comfortable lodgings, and, to cut the matter short,

With as much consideration treated weary old Silenus

As if the entertainment were for Mercury or Venus.

G

Now when Bacchus heard the story, he proceeded to the king,

And, says he, "By old Silenus you have done the handsome thing;

He's my much respected tutor, who has taught me how to read,

And I'm sure your royal kindness should receive its proper meed;

So I grant you full permission to select your own reward:

Choose a gift to suit your fancy-something worthy of a lord."

"Evoe Bacche," cried the monarch; "if I do not make too bold,

Let whatever I may handle be transmuted into gold."

Midas, sitting down to dinner, sees the answer to his wish,

For the turbot on the platter turns into a golden fish?

And the bread between his fingers is no longer wheaten bread;

But the slice he tries to swallow is a wedge of gold instead!

And the roast he takes for mutton fills his mouth with golden meat,

Very tempting to the vision, but extremely hard to

eat;

And the liquor in his goblet, very rare, select, and

old,

Down the monarch's thirsty throttle, runs a stream of liquid gold!