I wonder not that parents' eyes,

In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn: The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies; And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? That deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose;
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod;
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far,
The clouds of death and sorrow fly,
I see thee, like a new-born star,

Move up thy pathway in the sky :
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,

And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;

Thrice happy, that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet.
But no; that look is not the last;

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,

Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-farewell!

THE PILGRIM CHILD.

ANONYMOUS.

A STRANGER child, one winter eve,
Knock'd at a cottage maiden's door;
"A pilgrim at your hearth receive—

Hark! how the mountain-torrents roar !"
But ere the latch was raised, "Forbear!"
Cried the pale parent from above;
"The Pilgrim child that's weeping there,
Is Love!"

The Spring tide came, and once again,

With garlands crown'd, a laughing child Knock'd at the maiden's casement pane,

And whisper'd "Let me in," and smiled. The casement soon was open'd wide

The stars shone bright the bower above; And lo! the maiden's couch beside

Stood Love!

And smiles, and sighs, and kisses sweet,
Beguiled brief Summer's careless hours;
And Autumn, Labour's sons to greet,

Came forth with corn, and fruit, and flowers.
But why grew pale her cheek with grief?
Why watch'd she the bright stars above?
Some one had stolen her heart-the thief
Was Love!

And Winter came, and hopes and fears
Alternate swell'd her virgin breast;

But none were there to dry her tears,
Or hush her anxious cares to rest.
And often as she ope'd the door,
Roar'd the wild torrent from above;
But never to her cottage more

Came Love!

HAD I THE TUN WHICH BACCHUS USED.

HAD I the tun which Bacchus used,

I'd sit on it all day;

For, while a can it ne'er refused,

He nothing had to pay.

I'd turn the cock from morn to eve,
Nor think it toil or trouble;
But I'd contrive, you may believe,
To make it carry double.

My friend shoulä sit, as well as I,
And take a jovial pot;

For he who drinks-although he's dry--

Alone, is sure a sot.

But since the tun which Bacchus used

We have not here- what then?

Since god-like toping is refused,
Let's drink like honest men.

And let that churl, old Bacchus, sit

Who envies him his wine?

While mortal fellowship and wit

Make whiskey more divine.

The above song, one almost worthy of Anacreon himself, is from Mr. Crofton Crokers, "Popular Songs of Ireland." It is the production of the late Richard Alfred Milliken, of Cork.

The following is the last verse of "The Bucket," omitted at page 103.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As faucy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in the well.