Come to God's own temple, come; What is earth but God's own field, Come, then, Lord of Mercy, come, Praising thee forevermore; Come, with thousand angels, come; EPIPHANY. BISHOP HEber. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine aid, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gifts would His favor secure, Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine aid, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid! THANKSGIVING DAY. LYDIA MARIA CHILD. OVER the river and through the wood, To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow. Over the river and through the wood It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go. Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river and through the wood Spring over the ground, Like a hunting-hound! For this is Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood, It is so hard to wait! Over the river and through the wood- Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie! APRIL FOOLS. WILLIAM PRAED. THIS day, beyond all contradiction, Of their new dress is out of order; And schoolboys that their shoes want tying; Lend me, lend me some disguise; THE MAY QUEEN. ALFRED TENNYSON. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New year; Of all the glad New year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice, in all the land, they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. ye should I see, As I came up the valley whom think terday But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: |