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LITTLE BIRD! LITTLE BIRD! "LITTLE bird! little bird! come to me! I have a green cage ready for thee; I'll bring thee flowers, both red and blue, And fresh, ripe cherries all wet with dew."

"Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care, But I dearly love the clear, cool air; And my snug little nest in the old oak tree." "Little bird! little bird stay with me.

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Nay, little damsel; away I'll fly To greener fields and a warmer sky; When spring returns with pattering rain You will hear my merry song again."

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"Little bird, little bird! who'll guide thee Over the hills, and over the sea? Foolish one, come, and with me stay; For I'm sure you'll never find your way."

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"Ah, no, little maiden! God guides me
Over the hills, and over the sea;
I will be as free as the clear bright air,
Chasing the sun-light everywhere!'

FINE CLOTHES.

How proud we are, how fond to show
Our clothes, and call them rich and new;
When the poor sheep and silk-worms wore
That very clothing long before!

The tulip and the butterfly,
Appear in gayer coats than I:
Let me be dress'd fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.

THE FLY.

WHAT a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly, He goes where he pleases, low or high, And can walk just as well with his feet to the sky,

As I can on the floor;

And, o'er the smooth glass
Can easily pass,

Or through the keyhole of the door.

He eats the sugar and goes away,
Nor never once asks what there is to pay;
And, sometimes, he crosses the tea-pot's
steam,

And comes and plunges his head in the

cream;

Then on the edge of the jug he stands, And cleans his wings with his feet and hands.

This done, through the window he hurries away,

And gives a buzz, as if to say,

"At present I haven't a minute to stay, But I'll peep in again in the course of the day."

Then away he'll fly,

Where the sunbeams lie,
Neither stop to shake hands
Nor bid one good-bye :

Such a strange little fellow is Mister Fly,
Who goes where he pleases, low or high,
And can walk on the ceiling,
Without ever feeling

A fear of tumbling down "sky high."

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our
our marriage-vows were

given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the Brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.

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