I'd not be like a butterfly,
Flutt'ring about the earth,
Seeking my own amusement,
My pleasure and my mirth.
Spring time and summer pass away,
Winter will soon be here,

I may not waste my precious time;
The end of all is near.

Far rather like that patient bee,
I'd work while call'd to-day
For day-light, well employ'd or not,
Will quickly pass away.

I'd try to do my Master's work,
Fixing on him my eye,

And if to me 'tis Christ to live,

It will be gain to die.

THE LAMBS.

DEAR little lambs, you never fight,

M. A. S.

You never growl, nor scratch, nor bite, As dogs and cats so often do;

So every body's fond of you.

Yet no one teaches you what's right,
Or tells you it is wrong to fight;
How very bad it then must be,
For us to fight and disagree.

For we are told, day after day,

What's right, what's wrong, to do or say;

Are told that God, who lives above,
Is pleas'd when we each other love,

A CHILD'S LAMENTATION.

WHO lies beneath this verdant tomb,
Where violets scatter deep perfume,
Where ivy creeps and pansies bloom?

My mother!

The green grass waves above thy bed,
Light is the turf that hides thine head,
And soft the odour o'er thee shed,

My mother!

The church-bell tolls upon the breeze,
Full gaily hum the summer bees,
And blythe birds carol on the trees,

My mother!

Sweet is the apple orchard near,

Sweet murmurs by the mill-stream clear,
Sweet in the corn the lark to hear,

My mother!

With golden buds the moor is bright,
Fair, fair the wheat-field to the sight,
And cloth'd the hills in purple light,

My mother!

Thou canst not hear, thou canst not see,
The mill, the brook, the bird, the tree;
The merry day is night to thee,

My mother!

For thee no more the stream shall flow,
The orchard bloom, the heather blow,
Thine eyes are clos'd, thy head is low,

My mother!

How oft beneath the walnut tree,

Where first I tried my A, B, C,

And strove to reckon one, two, three,

My mother!

I take my little garden chair,

When afternoons are fine and fair,
But vainly hope to find thee there,

My mother!

Ah! no one now, all good and kind,

No mellow plum, no juicy pear,
No picture gift with colours fair,
No pretty toy is mine to share,

Blind Ellen came the other day,
Her weekly rent she had to pay,
But wip'd her eyes and crept away,

My mother!

My mother!

All, all is chang'd, ee'n puss no more
Runs round and round upon the floor,
But pining watches at the door,

My mother!

And weary is the live-long day,

No joyous talk, no gladsome play;

Oh! would thou hadst not gone away,

My mother!

I left my father near the stile,

King-cups I went to seek the while,

Pale was his cheek, and faint his smile,

My mother!

I strove to coax him forth to play,
So hid behind the tombstone grey,
Then peep'd-but he's no longer gay,

Last night he took me on his knee,
And gazing mournfully on me,
Pray'd God my Father kind to be,

And when to cheer him all I tried,
Nought he to aught 1 said replied,
But wept and turn'd his head aside,

My mother!

My mother!

My mother!

Yet every eve both he and I

Come here to talk of things gone by,
And sit beside thy grave and cry,

My mother! There weeds we pluck, and seeds we sow, Which into pretty flow'rets grow,

Some azure blue, some white as snow,

My mother!

And oft we call upon thy name;
Ah me! when once we did the same,
Who sweetly smil'd and swiftly came?

My mother!

Now, now the moaning wind sweeps by,
And waves the poplar boughs on high,
But ah! no voice makes fond reply,

My mother!

They tell me thou art gone to God,
That 'tis but dust beneath the sod,
That death's" a path which must be trod,"

My mother!

And when I raise my searching eyes,

I think I see thee in the skies,

Till tears blind me as they arise,

My mother!

Oh! had I wings I'd fly to thee,
And with my father would we be,
In heaven a happy family,

My mother!

Then let me read God's book with care,
And think betimes of praise and prayer,
That I one day may join thee there,

My mother!