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"Yes! but the waves seem ever
Singing the same sad thing;
And vain is my weak endeavor,
To guess what the surges sing.
What is that voice repeating,

?"

Ever by night and day?
Is it a friendly greeting?
Or a warning that calls
away
"Brother! the inland mountain,
Hath it not voice and sound?
Speaks not the dripping fountain.
As it bedews the ground?
Een by the household ingle,
Curtain'd, and clos'd, and warm;
Do not our voices mingle

With those of the distant storm?"
Yes, yes! but there's something greater
That speaks to the heart alone :
The voice of the great Creator
Dwells in that mighty tone!

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.
CHARLIE is my darling,

My darling-my darling!
Charlie is my darling,
The young cavalier!

'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
When first I saw my brave Monteith,
The young cavalier.

As he came marching up the brae

The pipes play'd loud and clear, And a' the clan came running out

To meet the cavalier.

Wi' Highland bonnet on his head,
And claymore long and clear,
He came to fight for Scotland's rights,
My brave cavalier.

Oh! Charlie, &c.

SIMON THE CELLARER.

W. H. BELLAMY.

OLD Simon the cellarer keeps a rare store Of Malinsey and Malvoisie,

Of Cyprus, and who can say how many

more,

For a chary old soul is he.

Of sack and canary he never doth fail, And all the year round there is brewing of ale;

Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.

But--ho! ho! ho! his nose doth show How oft the black jack to his lips doth go.

Dame Margery sits in her own still room, For a matron sage is she;

From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume

She says it is rosemarie.

But there's a small cupboard behind the backstair,

And the maids say they often see Margery there;

Now Margery says that she grows very old,

And she must take a something to keep out the cold.

But-ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know Where many a flask of his best doth go.

Old Simon reclines in his high-back'd chair,

And talks about taking a wife; And Margery often is heard to declare, That she ought to be settled for life. But Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue,

And she's not very handsome, nor yet

very young.

So somehow it ends with a shake of the head,

And Simon he brews him a tankard in stead;

With a ho ho ho he doth chuckle and crow, "What marry old Margery! oh, no, no!"

O LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.
EDWARD FITZBALL.

O LET me like a soldier fall
Upon some open plain;
This breast, expanding for the ball
To blot out every stain ;
Brave, manly hearts confer my doom,
That gentler ones may tell
Howe'er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell.

I only ask of that proud race
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last and not disgrace
Its ancient chivalry;

Though o'er my clay no banner wave
Nor trumpet requiem swell;
Enough, they murmur at my grave
He like a soldier fell.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
ALFRED BUNN.

THE light of other days is faded,
And all their glories past,

For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hopes too bright to last.
The world with morning's mantle clouded,
Shines forth with purer rays,

But the heart ne'er feels, in sorrow shrouded,

The light of other days.

The leaf which autumn tempests wither, The birds which then take wing, When winter's winds are past, come hither,

To welcome back the spring. The very ivy on the ruin

In gloom full life displays,
But the heart alone sees uo renewing
The light of other days.

I LOVE THE MERRY SUNSHINE.
J. W. LAKE.

I LOVE the merry sunshine,
It makes the heart so gay
To hear the sweet birds singing
On their summer holiday,

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