Upon the Sabbath Day.

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At length in a corner a vessel he found :

Says he, "Here's something to drink, I'll be bound!"
And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up,

And drank it all off at one long, hearty sup.

It tasted so queerly, and what could it be?

He wondered. It neither was water nor tea?

Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear: Oh, it must be the poison for rats, I declare ! "

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And loudly he called on his dear sleeping wife,

And begged her to RISE-" For," said he, " on my life
I fear it was poison the bowl did contain.

Oh, dear, yes, it was poison; I now feel the pain!"
"And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried;
""Twould serve you just right if from poison you died.
And you've done a fine job, and you'd now better march,
For just see, you brute, you have drunk all my starch!"

UPON THE SABBATH DAY.

J. T. GALLEY.

ROM north to south a cry ascends,

FROM
From men both rich and poor-

"Upon the holy Sabbath day

O close the alehouse door! "
Christians and patriots unite
"Remove the snare!
'Tis bringing sadness to our homes,
And trouble and despair."

To cry:

O ye who hold the nation's helm,-
Who make the country's laws,—

To you united we appeal:

And have we not a cause?

We say 'tis time the law was pass'd,
Th' accursed trade to stay;
'Tis time that Bacchus-temples were
Closed on the Sabbath day!

Is it not true that on the day

When faithful Christians meet,
To bow in holy prayer and praise
Around the mercy seat,

Then-even then-when prayers ascend

To God, to banish sin;

Open the tempting alehouse stands,
Inviting drinkers in?

We plead for justice and for right,
O haste the curse away!

Why should this trade th' exception be
Upon the Sabbath day?

'Tis spoiling homes and cursing lives,
And blighting age and youth;
Alluring many loved and dear
Far from the paths of truth.

O Statesmen! rise-now is the time!
List to the people's voice!
And give us better, sober laws,
And England shall rejoice;

The nation's groaning 'neath the curse-
O do not still delay!

But close-O close the alehouse door
Upon the Sabbath day!

FOUND AT A FAIR.

BY W. A. EATON,

Author of "The Fireman's Wedding," dc., dc.

NLY a little slipper!

ONLY

Dusty and worn at the toe,

I found in the road, where the people
Went trampling to and fro !
The last night of the season,

The lights were being put out,
"Be in time!" came like an echo
Of the clown's late noisy shout.

The drummer is tired of banging,
And the mouth-organ is mute,
The cymbals have ceased their clanging,
And still is the piercing flute.

Found at a Fair.

The spangles look sadly tarnished,
The gauze a dirty white;
The caravans, newly varnished,
Will take to the road to-night.

The row of tents looks ghostly,
Like a still, deserted camp;

And the "Beautiful Blaze of Splendour,"
Has come to one-Naptha Lamp.
The crowd, the din and the bustle
Have ceased; there is no one there;

I hear the dead leaves rustle,

And this is the end of the fair.

Only a little slipper!

Dusty and worn at the toe;
And I wonder much if the wearer
Will grieve at its loss or no?
Was the foot that proudly wore it,
When the gold on its edge was bright,
Now wandering cold and shoeless
On the dreary road all night?

Was it a tender maiden

Who danced 'mid the heat and glare?

Who wearily toiled that others

Might have the fun of the fair?

Did ever the foot go slowly,

And tell of a weary heart

That pined for a path more lowly,
And grew sick of acting a part?

Only a little slipper!

Yet I cannot cast aside
What may have been a treasure
Hoarded with jealous pride!

I will keep it, for it touches

A chord in mine inmost heart;

And I muse o'er the fate of the wearer
Till the tears to my eyelids start!

Only a tiny slipper!

Faded and worn at the toe ; And whether the owner is sorry

Or not, I shall never know.

But I pray that the wearer may traverse

Life's pathway with guileless feet,

And, when the long journey is over,

May walk in the golden street!

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THE WEAVER LASS.

DAVID LAWTON.

ON Greenhill lived a weaver lass,

With eyes of brightest blue,
And cheeks as red as any rose,
And hair of golden hue.

Two suitors came to woo the maid,
Two men of different mould;
One was a dashing, dainty fop,
Who owned both lands and gold.

The other was a comely youth,
Of poor, but honest line;
Who struggled hard with poverty,
Determined he would shine.

A sober, godly life he lived,
Avoiding every snare,

He pondered well his future path,
Took all his steps with care.

Right hard he studied, that he might
By his own efforts rise,

And make by worthy deeds a name
That men should love and prize.

The rich man gave her jewels rare,
And wooed her soon and late,

"Your lightest word my law," he cried, "You I will elevate,

"For I have gold, and I have lands,

A house, and servants three,

And you shall be a lady fine

If you will marry me."

"I cannot give you gold and lands,"
The poor man meekly sighed,
"But I will love with all my heart,
If you will be my bride."

And in her heart she owned his worth,

And longed to be his wife,

That she might share his hopes and aims

And cheer him through the strife.

The Weaver Lass.

But pride stepped in-for she was proud—

And drew her heart astray;

"I cannot share your poverty,"
Was all she deigned to say.

The poor man went his way awhile
Into a foreign clime,

And after years of thrift and toil,
He made a name sublime;

Wealth, honour, fame and power were his,
Achieved by his own hand,
And he could lift his head among

The noblest of the land.

Such was the man she thoughtless spurned
In her unthinking haste,

Nor recked how hard would be her fate-
Her life from thence a waste!

She chose the man with gold and lands,
And soon became his wife,

And for awhile she knew no care
And gaily lived her life.

But by and by his heart grew cold,
The selfish, fickle knight,

And she alone in silence mourned
O'er many a cruel slight.

His days and nights were given to wine
And deeds of dark disgrace;

And when they met at their own board
He mocked her to her face.

Until at length she pined away,
Lost all her youthful bloom,

And died before she'd reached her prime
A death of rayless gloom.

My story's told, sweet maids, and now

With this advice I cease :

Choose worth, not wealth, if you would know

True happiness and peace.

Love counts for more than gold and lands,
It makes the marriage state,

If pride should tempt take warning from
The weaver lassie's fate.

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