The blushing cornflower from his waist
Looks up unto his head;

But John for sweetness has no taste,
He bitters likes instead.

For this, John thou shalt hop-in bed
Hot water there shall be,

And as men's wives tie their cravats
We, too, crave vats for thee.

John Barleycorn, his beard is stiff-
The great and golden sun,
Each lapping shower, each breezy whiff,
Hath something for him done.
The metal on the anvil rings,

A sickle, by-and-by,

Thy length of ears one sequence brings,
Thou shortly, John, must die.

Thy spirit, thou being dead and gone,
We'll bind unto our use,

And foamy wreathes shall mantle on
Each glass of mellow juice;

For thou shalt nerve the peasant's arm
And cheer the hearts of kings,
And with thy generous heat shalt warm
Cold age and wintry things.

FALLING LEAVES.

TRUE, they are but hackneyed themes,
Telling that the falling leaves
Typify man's end of dreams.

There, beside my cottage eaves—

Stands a poplar tall and high,
Shivering down its myriad leaves
In the north wind cutting by.

Day by day the dead leaves fall,
Day by day some fair hope dies,
And the sad hours weave a pall
Betwixt them and our eyes.
Right busily their fingers go,
Hastening the winter of our woe,
Bare boughs for weary eyes.
On the sward the swarthy leaves
Dankly die a clammy death.
Patient nature never grieves

O'er them slain by icy breath.
Green and golden, bronzed and brown,
Deep and soft the piled leaves
Closer, closer nestle down.

Mother Nature to her breast

Takes them, binds them, hides them fast, Keeps them gently loving, lest Aught of hers be lost at last. Aught of hers? Ah, never yet Did she from her deep heart cast Her true children-nor forget! For each little delving root Open-mouthed waits for food; Weather-pulped the dead leaves shoot Through the tree-veins like to blood: And when the springtide brings again Sun and wind and tepid rain,

Shall, in buds, from boughtops shoot.

So our old hopes, day by day,

Rot and wither from our hearts!
Desolate the bare boughs sway,
Desolate, with barren smarts,
We vex our lives. Ah! never dies
A leafy joy from out our hearts
But blossoms bright in Paradise.

JOSEPH SKIPSEY.

THE author of the following pretty lyrical effusions well deserving preservation here, is a working coal-miner; of whose writings we extract the following notice from the "Gateshead Observer:" "He who can write verses such as these, be he Pitman or Peer, may never lift his bonnet otherwise than in courtesy to the proudest scholar in the land. We ask for our Poet, therefore, no commiserating aid. A man so nobly endowed by Heaven-to whom, in his own words, creation's self is other to that it seems to common sight'-is no fit subject for commiseration, having gifts which should inspire his own deep thankfulness, and the respectful admiration of others."

We understand the author is about to publish a new edition of his Songs and Poems, and should any of our readers be desirous of encouraging lowly genius, and of lending a helping hand to a deserving author (a true specimen of the workman-poet), we would recommend an application to Messrs. Pigg and Co., Printers and Publishers, 81, Clayton Street, Newcastle.

A WORD OF GOOD CHEER.

WHY thus mourn o'er star-hopes faded?
They are only from thy ken
While by passing vapours shaded,
They will soon appear again.
Up! and gird thee like a warrior!
Up! and make the present thine!
Trust me every doubt 's a barrier
To life's heritage divine!

Boldly face the strife before thee!
Difficulties big with gloom :
In their rear are wreaths of glory
For the heroes who o'ercome.
Valour's born from self-denial;
Wisdom, from each stern rebuke;
Power, from every pain and trial
That the human soul may brook.

Hast thou ne'er thy ken directed
Down the avenue of time,
And throughout the maze detected
Spirit-working deeds sublime?
Matter vanquished, fetters rended,
And the beauty of the mind
Rising like a starlight splendid
O'er the pathway of mankind?

Be not from thyself so banished
As for even once to dream

All the great and good have vanished
With time's onward sweeping stream!

No, my brother! be instructed

From the universe around:

God still acts as he has acted!

Labour's guerdon must be found!

Labour, then! the task before thee
Soon will cease to be a task,
But a spell that will secure thee
Whatsoever thou wouldst ask;
Yea, 'twill crown thee King, attended
By the dulcet tones of Love,
An Immortal, here descended,
To uplift our eyes above!

Smiles will leap to hail thee victor
From each flower and running brook :
Beauty will herself impicture

On whatever thou mayst look;
Stars the blessed stars-my brother,
Will attend thee in the night;

And creation's self be other

Than it seems to common sight!

CHARITY.

A TENFOLD blessing on his head
Who helpeth thus the poor in need,
As evening's dew unto the flower,
Drain'd by the noon-day's sultry hour,
Thy mite his vigour renovates,
And his poor heart with joy elates;
Nor art thou poorer for the act,
But made more truly rich in fact.
Thou hast added to thy mind
Treasures that leave price behind.
What though envious tongues reply
Scornful words for sympathy-
As one whose hopes are realized—
Hopes beyond existence prized-
The holy Seraph, who records
Our actions in eternal words,