77.-THE CONTENTED BIRD.-Miss Gould.

Oh! what will become of thee, poor little bird?
The muttering storm in the distance is heard;
The rough winds are waking, the clouds growing black,
They'll soon scatter snow-flakes all over thy back!
From what sunny clime hast thou wandered away?
And what art thou doing this cold winter day?
"I'm picking the gum from the old peach-tree;
The storm doesn't trouble me. Pee! dee! dee!"

But what makes thee seem so unconscious of care?
The brown earth is frozen, the branches are bare :
And how canst thou be so light-hearted and free,
As if danger and suffering thou never shouldst see?
When no place is near for thy evening nest,
No leaf for thy screen, for thy bosom no rest?
"Because the same Hand is a shelter for me
That took off the summer leaves. Pee! dee! dee !"

But man feels a burden of care and of grief,
While plucking the cluster and binding the sheaf.
In the summer we faint, in the winter we're chilled,
With a void in our hearts that is yet to be filled.
We take from the ocean, the earth, and the air,
Yet all their rich gifts do not silence our care.
"A very small portion sufficient will be,

If sweetened with gratitude. Pee! dee! dee!"

But soon the chill ice will weigh down the light bough,
On which thou art flitting so playfully now;

And though there's a vesture well-fitted and warm,
Protecting the rest of thy delicate form,

What then wilt thou do with thy bare little feet,

To save them from pain, 'mid the frost and the sleet?
"I can draw them right up in my feathers, you see,
To warm them and fly away. Pee! dee! dee!"

78. THE REAPER.-Wordsworth.

'Behold her single in the field, yon solitary Highland Lass! reaping and singing by herself; stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, and sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt

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more welcome notes to weary bands of travellers in some shady haunt among Arabian sands: no sweeter voice was ever heard in spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, breaking the silence of the seas among the farthest Hebrides. 3 Will no one tell me what she sings? perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago: or is it some more humble lay, familiar matter of to-day? some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, that has been, and may be again! Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang as if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, and o'er the sickle bending; I listen'd till I had my fill; and as I mounted up the hill, the music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.

79.-HUNTING SONG.-Ser Walter Scott.

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1 Waken, lords and ladies gay! on the mountain dawns the day; all the jolly chase is here, with hawk and horse and hunting-spear; hounds are in their couples yelling, hawks are whistling, horns are knelling; merrily, merrily mingle they, "waken, lords and ladies gay!" 2 Waken, lords and ladies gay! the mist has left the mountain gray; springlets in the dawn are streaming, diamonds on the brake are gleaming, and foresters have busy been, to track the buck in thicket green; now we come to chant our lay, "waken, lords and ladies gay!" 3 Waken, lords and ladies gay, to the greenwood haste away; we can show you where he lies, fleet of foot and tall of size; we can show the marks he made, when 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; you shall see him brought to bay; waken, lords and ladies gay! Louder, louder chant the lay! waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them, youth and mirth and glee run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk?-staunch as hound and fleet as hawk! Think of this and rise with day, gentle lords and ladies gay!

80. TRY AGAIN.-Palmer.

''Tis a lesson you should heed-try, try again! If at first you don't succeed, try, try again! Thus your courage should appear; for if you will persevere, you will conquer, never fear:-try, try again! 2 Once or twice though you should fail, try, try again! If you would at last prevail, try, try again! If we strive, 'tis no disgrace though we may not win the race; what should you do in the case ?—try, try again! 3 If you find your task is hard, try, try again! Time will bring you your reward; try, try again! All that other folks can do, why, with patience, should not you? only keep this rule in view-TRY, TRY AGAIN!

81.-GAFFER GRAY.-Holcroft.

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? and why does thy nose look so blue ?" ""Tis the weather that's cold-'tis I'm grown very old, and my doublet is not very new; well-a-day!" "2 Then line thy old doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray, and warm thy old heart with a glass !" "Nay, but credit I've none, and my money's all gone; then say, how may that come to pass? well-a-day!" 3"Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray, and knock at the jolly Priest's door." "The priest often preaches against worldly riches, but ne'er gives a mite to the poor, well-a-day!" "The Lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; warmly fenced both in back and in front." "He will fasten his locks; and threaten the stocks, should he ever more find me in want; wella-day!" 5 "The Squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; and the season will welcome you there." ... "His fat beeves, and his beer, and his merry new year, are all for the flush and the fair,— well-a-day!" 6" My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; what then? while it lasts, man, we'll live !" The poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan, of his morsel a morsel will give, well-a-day!

82.-JOHN BROWN.-Mackay.

I've a guinea I can spend, I've a wife, and I've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I've a cottage of my own, with the ivy overgrown,
And a chamber with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can stand at my door by my shady sycamore,
Large at heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and talk a bit in my arbour as you sit,

And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
I love the song of birds, and the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence, and a want of common sense,
An arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers, and the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave, and a proud contented slave,
And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song that awakes emotion strong,

And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;

And I hate the constant whine of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate, if I seek my garden gate,

And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind, and I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So if you like my ways, and the comfort of my days,
I can tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
I never scorn my health-nor sell my soul for wealth-
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I've parted with my pride, I take the sunny side,

For I've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep my conscience clear-I've a hundred pounds a year—
And I manage to exist and be glad, John Brown!

83.--NONGTONGPAW.-Dibdin.

'John Bull for pastime took a prance, some time ago, to peep at France; to talk of sciences and arts, and knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, and answer'd John in heathen Greek to all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas." 2 John, to the Palais-Royal come, its splendour almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that 'ere here ?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, Nongtongpaw again !" cries John; "this fellow is some mighty Don: no doubt he's plenty for the maw,-I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw!" 3 John saw Versailles from Marli's height, and cried, astonish'd at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that 'ere here ?” "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? what! the land and houses too? the fellow's richer than a Jew: on everything he lays his claw! I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw!" Next tripping came a courtly fair; John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that 'ere here?" "Vench! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! a palace, lands, and then a wife an artist might delight to draw I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw! 5 But hold! whose

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funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends pas."-" What, is he gone? wealth, fame, and beauty could not save poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave! his race is run, his game is up !—I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup; but since he chooses to withdraw, good night t' ye, Mounピ seer Nongtongpaw."

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SELECTIONS FROM THE IRISH MELODIES

FOR

JUNIOR PUPILS.

1.-THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.-Moore.

The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls as if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,-so glory's thrill is o'er;
And hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more!
No more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells,
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives
Is—when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives!

2.-OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!-Moore.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

3.-I SAW FROM THE BEACH.-Moore.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining—
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.