All frantic with joy to be off to the fair,
With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there?

He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years;

But, mercy! how's this? my eye's filling with tears.
Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart!

There are drops on my cheek; there's a throb in my breast,
But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest,
Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen,
With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green.

His best years have gone by, and the master who gave
The stern yoke to his youth has enfranchised the slave;
So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife,
For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. ́
- Eliza Cook.

FARM-YARD SONG.

OVER the hill the farm-boy goes,
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' !"

Farther, farther over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' !"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,

The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,-

' Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co' ! co'!"

While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray, —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! ”

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling ;

The new-milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,—

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To

supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose;

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,

Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,

Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

-J. T. Trowbridge.

Sniffing round and round about,
Till I find you children out;
And my dreadful den shall be

Deep within the hollow tree."

"Oh, no! please not, Robert dear, Do not be a grizzly bear!

Little May was half afraid

When she heard the noise you made,

Roaring like a lion strong,

Just now as you came along ;

And she 'll scream and start, to-night,

If you give her any fright."

"Well, then, I will be a fox!

You shall be the hens and cocks,
In the farmer's apple-tree,
Crowing out so lustily;

I will softly creep

this way

Peep-and pounce upon my prey;
And I'll bear you to my den

Where the fern grows in the glen."

'Oh, no, Robert! you're so strong,
While you're dragging us along
I'm afraid you'll tear our frocks :
We won't play at hens and cocks."
"If you won't play fox or bears,
I'm a dog, and you be hares;
Then you 'll only have to run;
Girls are never up to fun."

"You 've your play, and we have ours :

Go and climb the trees again!

I, and little May, and Jane,

Are so happy with our flowers!