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But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,

And I play'd a lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go-poor, forsaken, and blind,

Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?

To my sweet native village, so far, far away,

I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

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SHELLS OF THE OCEAN.

J. W. LAKE.

ONE summer eve, with pensive thought, I wander'd on the sea-beat shore, Where oft in heedless infant sport

I gather'd shells in days before.
The plashing waves like music fell

Responsive to my fancy wild;
A dream came o'er me like a spell,
I thought I was again a child.
I stoop'd upon the pebbly strand

To cull the toys that round me lay
But as I took them in my hand

I threw them one by one away.

Oh, thus, I said, in ev'ry stage
By toys our fancy is beguiled,
We gather shells from youth to age,
And then we leave them like a child.

THE MAIDS OF MERRY IRELAND.
R. WYNNE.

Oн, the maids of merry Ireland, so beau-
tiful and fair,

With eyes like diamonds sparkling, and richly flowing hair;

Their hearts are light and cheerful, and their spirits ever gay,

The maids of merry Ireland, how beautiful are they!

They are like the lovely flowers in sum-
mer time that bloom,

On the sportive breezes shedding their
choice and sweet perfume,
Our eyes and hearts delighting with
their varied array,

The maids of merry Ireland, how beautiful are they !

They smile when we are happy, when we are sad they sigh ;

When anguish wrings our bosoms, the tear they gently dry;

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Oh! don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt,

Near the green sunny slope of the hill ; Where oft we have sung 'neath its widespreading shades,

And kept time to the click of the mill. The mill has gone to decay, Ben Bolt, And a quiet now reigns all around; See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet,

Lies scatter'd and fall'n to the ground.
See the old, &c.

Oh! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

And the master so kind and so true; And the little nook by the clear running brook,

Where we gather'd the flowers as they grew !

On the master's grave grows the grass, Ben Bolt,

And the running little brook is now dry;

And of all the friends who were school. mates then,

There remain, Ben, but you and I.
And of all, &c.

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