Ye are gay-ye are gay-a happy band!

O, I envy your pleasure, so perfect and pure; 'Tis a beautiful gift from the heavenly land, But alas! a gift that will not endure

I see the wing of misfortune stoop

O'er the years that are coming, ye joyous group!

The hours of childhood must pass away,
And you will forsake the cottage door;
And its pleasing repast, and its innocent play,
In the crowd of the world will be known no more;
But you'll often think of its peaceful shade,
And long will it be ere its memory fade.

The mother that watches your gambols now,
And smiles on your mirth, in the dust will lie;
And perhaps even your bright heads may bow,
Ere your sun has reached the meridian sky-
Yes! smiling young urchins! there's none can say
When the shades of the evening may darken his day.

Perhaps you may live on to virtuous age,

And have round you a group like your own gay band;
And with the bright hopes of some patriarch sage,
In the midst of a rising posterity stand!

You will look on their sports, and then live o'er
The pleasures you knew by the cottage door.

The barefoot boy that kneels on the grass,

May perhaps have others to kneel to him; And the fair-haired girl to wealth may pass, And cover with purple her sun burnt limb; And he who is sipping his milk from the bowl, May drink the inspiring draught of the soul.

The half-clad cherub, who smiles in glee,
May be a man of grief and tears;

And the boy who climbs by his mother's knee,
May always sink through desponding fears;
While the babe on the breast may a wanderer be,
And traverse the bounds of the land and the sea,

Be happy, young creatures, while yet ye may,
Nor dream of the sorrows that come to all;
O! dim not the sun of your infant day

With fears of the ills that may yet befall-
Ye are happy now-it avails you not
To waste a thought on your future lot.

Give all to joy, unstained and free,

Ay! make it a revel-a fairy song;

Let your feelings be bright, like the leaves of the tree,
That throws its shade o'er your mirthful throng;
For never on earth will enjoyment pour

Round your hearts like the bliss of the cottage door.

HUMBLE LIFE;

OR, THE SYCAMORE TREE.

AN IRISH POPULAR STORY, BY THE AUTHOR OF

"ST. KEVIN'S BED," &c.

"The self-same sun that shines upon a court
Hides nôt his visage from our cottage,

But shines on both alike."

In a remote part of the County of Galway, in Ireland, dwelt Philip Alanson, and his pretty wife, Norah. Their cabin was better built than those of their neighbours, and was situated on the bank of the Tarnside, with a beautiful sycamore-tree in front, and a clump of hawthorns on either side; a verdant bank, enamelled with the violet, primrose, and pink daisy, spread along the west side, and on the south was a potato patch, and a shed as a sort of shelter for Philip's old white nag, and Norah's brindle cow. Take it altogether, it was as pretty a spot as could be found in a long summer's day.

Much has been said of the filthy condition in which the lower classes keep their cabins, and from such high authority as Lady Morgan and Miss Edgeworth I cannot dissent; but as there is no rule without an exception, so was it with Norah

Alanson. It is true that both Philip and his wife, though their parents were poor, were above the condition of the Irish. peasantry in general; they had been taught to read their Bible, and it was even whispered that Norah had been seen writing a love-letter for Ellen O'Leary to her sweetheart, Felix McHenry. For the truth of these reports I do not pretend to vouch, though my source of information is very respectable. But to proceed.

Norah Alanson, her husband, and children, five in number, always looked as the neighbours said, that is, clane and dacent; their milking pails and churn were whiter than any for many miles round the Tarnside-nay, Father Donallan, the priest of the parish, went further, and said, that the old white nag, the brindle cow, and even their pigs, looked cleaner and happier than any he had seen in his sojournings through the county of Galway. Be that as it may, one thing is undeniable-their establishment was the admiration of all the strangers who travelled into those parts. Philip was kind and affectionate-Norah industrious and good-tempered. Her family increased, and her cares increased with it. Philip consoled and tried to lighten her labour. So far as they were themselves concerned, things went on smoothly; but in spite of their industry, perseverance, and patience, sorrow assailed them :

-"And this should teach us

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."

An envious neighbour got into their cow-house, and hamstrung poor Brindle, and otherwise injured her, so that she died soon after. When Norah found out her misfortune, she wept sincerely for the loss of her cow, but drying her eyes, she said with an upturned look of gratitude, "Thanks be to God that it wasn't our ould nag; if it had been him that the craturs had kilt, we shouldn't be able to get our male from the mill." Shortly after this Norah had her sixth child; and, as if it were predestined that as their family increased their means of providing for it was to be taken from them, some thief stole two of their pigs. When Norah was told of this, "Thanks be to the Lord that they did not stale one of

the childer to make a gipsy of," was her reply. Father Donallan discovered the thief, and Philip mounted the old white nag, to go in pursuit of him, but by some unaccountable mishap-certainly not the gaiety of his steed-fell and broke his leg. Thus it is that

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions,"

The priest and the doctor wished to keep this last a secret from Norah, but it was impossible. The good Father Donallan related it to her as cautiously as possible; at first she was disposed to murmur, but in a moment her naturally religious mind was recalled to its recollection and its duty.

"Lord forgive me," said she, "I am but a poor sinful body, and know not what I am saying. I thank God that he has spared my poor man's neck; his leg will get well, but och! och! his neck! his neck! had that been broken, it never could have been mended."

Thus it ought to be with all who are suffering from the assaults of misfortune. If we were to look around, and see how much worse our visitations might have been, it would teach us to submit with resignation to His will, who knows, better than we, what will result in benefit to us.

Philip was now unable to attend to his daily labour at Summer Hill, the seat of the Honourable Mr. Meredith. Fortunately for them, the females of the middling and lower classes of Ireland are remarkably hardy; this circumstance enabled Norah to attend to the comforts her husband's situa tion required; but, alas! many were the privations they were compelled to suffer, and but for the wild honey that her children obtained from the sycamore tree in front of their cabin, she would have found it difficult to have satisfied the cravings of their appetites; but the sweetness of the syrup cloyed their palates and kept them quiet, and many a hearty blessing did the old sycamore obtain from Norah. They had potatoes, but no buttermilk, except what the neighbours sent them, and this Philip and his wife could not relish, because those who sent it were not tidy; they had oatmeal to make stirabout, but no milk to take it in.

*

* Knowa in America as mush, or hasty-pudding.

Poor Norah became pale and thin, from anxiety, and the want of their usual comforts. She made no complaint, however, but tried to hide her sufferings from Philip; but the watchful eye of love is not thus to be deceived. He saw with grief the ravages that sorrow was making on the health of his beloved companion, and Philip groaned in spirit.

Stop, says the reader; what were the Meredith family about at Summer Hill at this time, to let the worthy Philip and his Norah suffer thus ? Have patience, gentle reader, and I will inform you. Mr. Meredith and family were in England, and his estate was managed by an agent, who, like all the agents of Irish absentees, showed no more compassion to their tenantry than negro drivers on a plantation in the West Indies do to the slaves.

One evening, while sitting at their spare repast-for Philip's leg was now quite well-he thought Norah appeared more than usually sorrowful.

Norah, my dear woman," said he, "cheer up, to-morrow I shall be able to go to Summer Hill, and then matters will be better than they are at present." But at this moment some of their little ones began to cry for food, which they had not to give, and observing Norah's tearful eyes, he said to them-"You are like a nest of robins; all your mouths are wide open, and us two old ones have nothing to stop your wailings with. Have patience, God is ever near the innocent, and will not entirely forsake us. 'He that feeds the ravens, and clothes the lilies of the valley,' will he not take care of us? I am one who has not taken his name in vain; I have not robbed or slandered my neighbour, nor broken the commandments of my God-He will listen if we pray." Norah's dim eyes flashed with a holy fire.

Philip, my good man," said she, "I like to hear you talk so; my heart melts within me. I have been thinking all this day that we have been unmindful of our duty; we have been selfish in our sorrows, and have forgotten in our hunger and thirst to seek the bread of eternal life, and the fountain of living waters.' Let us pray, Philip.”

"We will, my dear Norah, we will; but let me first ask Father Donallan to come and give us his counsel."

There was something so solemn, so serious, and so much of the beatified spirit in the looks and manner of these worthy