And when the old woman came home at night, He said he could plainly see,

That his wife could do more work in a day

Than he could do in three.

And then he said how well she plough'd,
And made the furrows even-

Said his wife could do more work in a day
Than he could do in seven.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee."

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?"

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee.

(By permission of Messrs. Macmillan.)

171

THE ALMA.

THE RIGHT REV. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.,
ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,

Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to

the sea:

Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known

Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.

In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,

And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine,

Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,

Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.

Yea, nor all unscathed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say

When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away

"He has pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds

repose,

Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;

And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done,

By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won.

Oh! thou river; dear for ever to the gallant, to the free

Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to

the sea.

(By permission of the Author.)

THE SPECTRE PIG.

O. W. HOLMES.

Ir was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.

And oh it was the gentle pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found. ·

They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong.

And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,

And like a mighty pendulum
All solemnly he swung.

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,

And read thy catechism well,

Thou sanguinary one.

For if his sprite should walk by night,

It better were for thee,

That thou were mouldering in the ground,

Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes.

All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his soft simplicity,

Out spoke the tender child

"Oh! father, father, list to me;
The pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."

It was the naughty butcher then
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry.

"Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail."

It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,

That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair.

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,-
Fast fell the tear-drops big:
"Ah! woe is me! Alas! alas!

The pig! the pig! the pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,

And softly over all the west

The shades of evening came.

He slept, and troops of murdered pigs
Were busy with his dreams;

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.

The clock struck twelve; the dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes,

And sullenly he shook his tail

To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord,-
One struggle and one bound,-
With stiffened limb and leaden eye,

The pig was on the ground.

And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;

And hooting owl, and hovering bat,

On midnight wing attended.