A

ORKNEY LULLABY.

MOONBEAM floateth from the skies,
Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie !

I would spin a web before your eyes, -
A beautiful web of silver light,
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,
And the snow-white lambkins are at play, -
Heigho, my dearie ! "

A brownie stealeth from the vine

Singing, "Heigho, my dearie! And will you hear this song of mine,

A song of the land of murk and mist

Where bideth the bud the dew hath kisst? Then let the moonbeam's web of light

Be spun before thee silvery white,

And I shall sing the livelong night,
Heigho, my dearie ! ”

The night wind speedeth from the sea,

Murmuring," Heigho, my dearie!

I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies;
But I shall rock thee to and fro,

Kissing the brow he loveth so,

And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow, Heigho, my dearie!"

LITTLE MACK.

THIS talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh,

We've got a Western editor that 's little, but, O

gosh!

He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so

set

In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson

yet;

But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils

swear,

The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed any

where !

And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a

tack,

And that's because they emanate

From little Mack.

In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man, As if he 'd been constructed on the summer-cottage

plan;

He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth

Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the

South;

His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust
Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust ;
In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back
From the grand Websterian forehead
Of little Mack.

No matter what the item is, if there 's an item in it, You bet your life he's on to it and nips it in a

minute!

From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies,

and lands,

From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands,

From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills,

He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the

bills;

What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knack

Of scraping up a lot of scoops,

Does little Mack.

And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and age

That ever played a part upon this fleeting human

stage;

His intellectual system 's so extensive and so greedy That, when it comes to records, he's a walkin' cyclopedy;

For having studied (and digested) all the books

a-goin',

It stands to reason he must know about all 's worth

a-knowin'!

So when a politician with a record 's on the track, We're apt to hear some history

From little Mack.

And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a

twenty,

Who's allus ready to whack up a portion of his

plenty?

Who's allus got a wallet that's as full of sordid

gain

As his heart is full of kindness and his head is full

of brain?

Whose bowels of compassion will in-va-ri-a-bly

move