He snatched his rifle from the rack,
He girt himself in battle-pelt;
He stuck two pistols in his belt,
And mounting on his horse's back,
He plunged ahead. But when they shewed
A woman fair, about his eyes
He pulled his hat; and he likewise
Pulled at his beard and chewed and chewed.
At last he got him down and spake:
"O lady dear! What do you here?"
"I build a tomb unto my dear,
I plant sweet flowers for his sake!"
The bearded man threw his two hands
Above his head, then brought them down,
And cried, "Oh I am William Brown,
And this the corner-stone of my lands!"
GIVE US A CALL.
Give us a call; we keep cool beer,
Wine and brandy and whiskey here;
Our doors are open to boys and men,
And even to women, now and then;
We lighten their purses, we taint their breaths,
We swell up the columns of awful deaths;
All kinds of crimes we sell for dimes
In our sugared poisons, so sweet to the taste,
If you've money, position, or name to waste,
Give us a call!
Give us a call. In a pint of gin
We sell more wickedness, shame, and sin
Than a score of clergymen, preaching all day
From dawn to darkness, could preach away;
And in our beer, though it may take longer
To make a man drunk than drinks that are stronger
We sell you poverty, sorrow, and woe:
Who wants to purchase? Our prices are low.
Give us a call!
Give us a call! We'll dull your brains,
We'll give you headaches and racking pains,
We'll make you old while yet you are young,
To lie and slander we'll train up your tongue.
We'll make you a shirk from all useful work,
Make theft and forgery seem but fair play,
And murder a pastime, on your dark way.
Give us a call!
Give us a call! We are cunning and wise,
We're bound to succeed, for we advertise
In the family papers, the journals that claim
To be upright in morals, and fair of fame;
Husbands and brothers and sous will read
Our kind invitations, and some will heed.
Give us a call!
Give us a call! For we always buy
The space in the paper we occupy;
And there's little in life that money'll not buy..
If you would go down in the world, and not up,
If you would be slain by the snake in the cup,
Or lose your soul in the flowing bowl,
If you covet shame and a blasted name,
Give us a call!
GRANDMOTHER'S SERMON.-ELLEN A. JEWETT.
The supper is o'er, the hearth is swept,
And in the wood fire's glow
The children cluster to hear a tale
Of that time so long ago,
When grandma's hair was golden brown,
And the warm blood came and went
O'er the face that could scarce have been sweeter then
Than now in its rich content.
The face is wrinkled and careworn now,
And the golden hair is gray;
But the light that shone in the young girl's eyes
Never has gone away.
And her needles catch the firelight
As in and out they go,
With the clicking music that grandma loves,
Shaping the stocking toe.
And the waiting children love it, too,
For they know the stocking song Brings many a tale to grandma's mind Which they shall have ere long.
But it brings no story of olden time
To grandma's heart to-night,-
Only a refrain, quaint and short,
Is sung by the needles bright.
"Life is a stocking," grandma says,
"And yours is just begun;
But I am knitting the toe of mine,
And my work is almost done.
"With merry hearts we begin to knit,
And the ribbing is almost play;
Some are gay-colored, a.id some are white;
And some are ashen gray.
"But most are made of many hues,
With many a stitch set wrong;
And many a row to be sadly ripped
Ere the whole is fair and strong.
"There are long, plain spaces, without a break,
That in life are hard to bear;
And many a weary tear is dropped
As we fashion the heel with care.
"But the saddest, happiest time is that
We count and yet would shun,
When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread,
And says that our work is done."
The children came to say good-night,
With tears in their bright young eyes,
But in grandma's lap, with broken thread,
The finished stocking lies.
THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK.
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.
My boy left me just twelve years ago,—
'Twas the black year of famine, of sickness and woe,
When the crops died out, and the people died, too,
And the land into one great graveyard grew;
And our neighbors' faces were as white and thin
As the face of the moon when she first comes in;
And honest men's hearts were rotten with blight,
And they thieved and prowled like the wolves at night;
When the whole land was dark as dark could be,— 'Twas then that Donal, my boy, left me.
We were turned from our farm where we'd lived so long,
For we couldn't pay the rent, and the law was strong;
From our low meadow-lands and flax-fields blue,
And the handsome green hill where the yellow furze grew,
And the honest old cow that each evening would stand
At the little gate, lowing to be milked by my hand;
And the small patch of garden at the end of the lawn,
Where Donal grew sweet flowers for his Colleen Bawn;
But Donal and I had to leave all these,
I to live with father, and he to cross the seas.
For Donal was as proud as any king's son,
And swore he'd not stand by and see such wrongs done,
But would seek a fortune out in the wide, wide West,
Where the honest can find labor, and the weary rest;
And as soon as he was able, why then he'd send for me
To rest my poor old head in his home across the sea;
And then his young face flushed like a June sky at dawn,
As he said that he was thinking how his Colleen Bawn
Could come along to help me to keep the house straight,
For he knew how much she loved him, and she'd promised
him to wait.
I think I see him now, as he stood one blessed day,
With his pale, smiling face, upon the Limerick quay,
And I lying on his breast, with his long, curly hair
Blowing all about my shoulders, as if to keep me there;
And the quivering of his lip, that he tried to keep so proud,
Not because of his old mother, but the idle curious crowd;
Then the hoisting of the anchor, and the flapping of the sail,
And the stopping of my heart when the wild Irish wail
From the mothers and the children, and the kinsfolk on
Told me plainer than all words that my darling was away.
Ten years went dragging by, and I heard but now and thenFor my Donal, though a brave boy, was no scholar with the pen;
But he sent me kindly words, and bade me not despair, And sometimes sent me money, perhaps more than he
So I waited and I prayed, until it came to pass
That Father Pat he wanted me, one Sunday after mass,
When I went, a little fearsome, to the back vestry-room, Where his reverence sat a-smiling like a sun-flower in the
And then he up and told me--God bless him!—that my boy
Had sent to bring me over, and I nearly died for joy.
All day I was half-crazed, as I wandered through the house; The dropping of the sycamore seeds, or the scramble of a mouse,
Thrilled through me like a gun-shot; I durst not look behind,
For the pale face of my darling was always in my mind,
The pale face so sorrowful, the eyes so large and dark,
And soft-shining as the deer's are in young Lord Massey s
park;
And the long chestnut hair, blown loosely by the wind,
All this seemed at my shoulder, and I dared not look behind;
But I said in my own heart, it is but the second sight
Of the day when I shall kiss him, all beautiful and bright.
Then I made my box ready to go across the sea,
My boy had sent a ticket, so my passage it was free;
But all the time I longed that some little gift I had
To take across the ocean unto my own dear lad;
A pin, or a chain, or something of the kind,
Just to 'mind the poor boy of the land he'd left behind.
But I was too poor to buy them, so I'd nothing left to do
But to go to the old farm, the homestead that he knew,
To the handsome green hill where my Donal used to play,
And cut a sod of shamrock for the exile far away.
All through the voyage I nursed it, and watered it each day,
And kept its green leaves sheltered from the salt sea spray,
And I'd bring it upon deck when the sun was shining fair,
To watch its triple leaflets opening slowly in the air.
At first the sailors laughed at my little sod of grass,
But when they knew my object they gently let me pass;
And the ladies in the cabin were very kind to me;
They made me tell the story of my boy across the sea;
So I told them of my Donal, and his fair, manly face,
Till bare speaking of my darling made a sunshine in the place.
We landed at the Battery, in New York's big bay,
The sun was shining grandly, and the wharves looked gay.
But I could see no sunshine nor beauty in the place,
What I only cared to look on was Donal's handsome face;
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