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Tho' my house is but small,
Yet to have none at all,
Shall my garden so sweet,
And my orchard so neat,
On Saturday night,
'Tis still my delight, With my wages to run home the faster;
But if War should come here,
I may look far and near,
I've a dear little wife,
And 'twould make me run wild
To see my sweet child With its head on the point of a pike, Sir,
I've my church too to save,
And will go to my grave, In defence of a church that's the best, Sir;
I've my Queen, too, God bless her!
Let no man oppress her,
British laws for my guard-
If the Squire should oppress,
I get instant redress;
My cot is my throne,
What I have is my own,
Should fighting come now,
'Tis true I may plough; But I'm sure that I never shall reap, Sir.
Now do but reflect
What I have to protect,
Queen, Church, Babes, and Wife,
Laws, Liberty, Life,
So I'll beat my ploughshare
To a sword or a spear,
Like a lion I'll fight,
That my sword now so bright, May soon turn to a ploughshare again, Sir.
THE THREE WARNINGS
The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground, 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
The greatest love of life appears.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
“Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard !
What more he urged, I have not heard,
And grant a kind reprieve;
But, when I call again this way,
What next the hero of our tale befell,
The willing muse shall tell :
He passed his hours in peace.
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall’d, unheeded, unawares,
As all alone he sate,
Once more before him stood.
“So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : “Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore.” “So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; “To spare the agèd would be kind : However, see your search be legal; And your authority—is ’t regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings ! But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages."
“I know,” cries Death, " that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least : I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable ; Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, tho', of your strength !" “Hold,” says the farmer, “not too fast, "I have been lame these four years past.”
“And no great wonder,” Death replies; “However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.” “Perhaps," says Dobson, “so it might, But latterly, I've lost my sight.”
" This is a shocking story, faith;
“There's none,” cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.”
“Nay, then! the spectre stern rejoin'd,
You've had your three sufficient warnings.
CHOOSE THE RIGHT ONE.
MRS. PARTON. The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay sleeping on her little couch, that fair summer night. So thought her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night blessing. The bright flush of youth and hope was on her cheek. Her long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders ; a smile played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct murmur. She starts at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlid, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden-signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself, “ How could I have been so blind ? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child)! But he! oh, no; the grog shop will be my child's rival; it must not be.” Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be