"But they are dead, those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven."

'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven."

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.-Sir John Morris.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence had found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I craved a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial drove me from their door,
To seek a shelter in an humble shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable home,

Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb! For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot ;

Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn; But, ah! oppression forced me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

Pity the sorrows of a poor

old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your

door;

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.-Burns.

There were three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough, and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head,

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall,
And Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head well armed with pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale,
His bending joints and drooping head,
Showed he began to fail.

His color sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgeled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe,
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him between two stones.

And they have ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER.-Miss Lamb.

Mother's grandfather lives still,

His age is four-score years and ten ; He looks a monument of time,

The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load,
A happier man you will not see
Than he, whenever he can get

His great grandchildren on his knee.

When we our parents have displeased,
He stands between us as a screen,
By him our good deeds in the sun,
Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out,
Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
His heart is oak, yet unto us

It like the gentlest reed can bend.
A fighting soldier he has been-

Yet by his manners you would guess,
That he his whole long life had spent
In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past,
For modern facts no pleasure yield—
Of the famed year of forty-five,
Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age,

Which princes from their thrones have hurled, Can no more interest wake in him,

Than stories of another world,

When I his length of days revolve,

How like a strong tree he hath stood,

It brings into my mind almost

Those patriarchs old before the flood.

CHOOSING A NAME.-Miss Lamb.

I have got a new-born sister;
I was nigh the first that kissed her
When the nursing woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter.
How papa's dear eyes did glisten!
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,
I shall have the naming of her.