I knew him by his dark blue eyes,
And by his features fair;

And as he leaped ashore he sang

A simple Scottish air,

"There's nae place like our ain dear hame To be met wi' onywhere!"

A SWINGING SONG.

MERRY it is on a summer's day,
All through the meadows to wend away;
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,
Oh, sure enough, 'tis a merry thing
But 'tis merrier far to swing-to swing!

Merry it is on a winter's night,

To listen to tales of elf and sprite,
Of caves and castles so dim and old,-
The dismallest tales that ever were told;
And then to laugh, and then to sing,
You may take my word is a merry thing,
But 'tis merrier far to swing-to swing!

green,

Down with the hoop upon the
Down with the ringing tamborine;
Little heed we for this or for that;

Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!

Away we go like birds on the wing!

Higher yet! higher yet! "Now for the King!'
This is the way we swing we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,
Mount up behind him there, that is right!
Down bends the branch now;-swing him away;
Higher yet higher yet-higher I say!
Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing

"A pear for the Queen-an apple for the King!”
And shake the old tree as we swing

we swing!

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

LEAVING her sports, in pensive tone,
'Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
'How sad we are now we're alone,
I wish my mother were not dead!

'I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child.

"Before my mother went away,
You never sighed as now you do ;
You used to join us at our play,

And be our merriest playmate too

"Father, I can remember when
I first observed her sunken eye,

And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die!

"And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;
They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

"Oh, then I thought how she was kind, My own beloved and gentle mother! And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne'er was such another!

"Poor little Charles, and I! that day
We sate within our silent room;

But we could neither read nor play,
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

"I wish my mother had not died, We never have been glad since then! They say, and is it true," she cried, "That she can never come again?'

The father checked his tears, and thus

He spake, "My child, they do not err, Who say she cannot come to us; But you and I may go to her.

"Remember your dear mother still,

And the pure precepts she has given;

Like her, be humble, free from ill,

And you shall see her face in heaven!"

THE SOLDIER'S STORY.

HEAVEN bless the boys!" the old man said, "I hear their distant drumming,

Young Arthur Bruce is at their head,

And down the street they're coming.

"And a very noble standard too
He carries in the van;

By the faith of an old soldier, he
Is born to make a man!"

A glow of pride passed o'er his cheek,
A tear came to his eye;

“Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!"
Cried he, as they came nigh.

"It seems to me but yesterday
Since I was one like ye,

And now my years are seventy-two,
Come here, and talk with me!"

They made a halt, those merry boys,
Before the aged man ;

And "Tell us now some story wild
Young Arthur Bruce began;

"Of battle and of victory

Tell us some stirring thing! The old man raised his arm aloft,

And cried, "God save the King

"A soldier's is a life of fame,
A life that hath its meed —

They write his wars in printed books,
That every man may read.

"And if you'd hear a story wild,
Of war and battle done,

I am the man to tell such tales,
And you shall now have one.

"In every quarter of the globe
I've fought — by sea, by land;
And scarce for five and fifty years
Was the musket from my hand.

"But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too,
That were waged on any shore,

Were those in which my strength was spent,
In the country of Mysore.

"And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime

Is that of the Indian land,

Where the burning sun shines fiercely down
On the hot and fiery sand!

"The life of man seems little worth,

And his arm hath little power;

His very soul within him dies,
As dies a broken flower.

"Yet spite of this, was India made

As for a kingly throne;

There gold is plentiful as dust,

As sand the diamond stone;