Weep not for him, who now doth fully know
The depth of mercy, and the grace divine;
"The precious blood, that makes him white as snow-
And sings with rapture, "Yes, I know he's mine!"
He leadeth him; He guides him with His eye,
Light of the world, He brightly beams on him;
And, brethren, we shall meet him by and by,
Where not a tear the ransomed eye shall dim.
Catch up and echo ye his trumpet tone,

Let whosoever heareth shout the sound!
We'll tell of Him, who saves and saves alone,
Till sinners shall receive, the world around.
Shall shout," "Tis done, I, too, believe the Son,"
Till prodigals come home, and kiss His feet,
Till hearts, emptied of self, by grace are won,
Nothing but vessels for his use made meet.

He'd bid us, could he speak from mansions fair,
"Rescue the perishing," not mourn the dead;
Bid burdened souls dismiss their load of care,
And learn that Jesus loves them-for them bled.
He seems to shout, from over Jordan's wave,
"Hold ye the fort! by help of grace divine;
Let lower lights be burning, you may save
Some struggling seaman, if your light doth shine!"
Let us not weep! When Jesus comes, we'll fly,
And enter into rest-We're going home.
He gave His life for us; why should we sigh?
For then our weary feet no more shall roam.
Now coming to the cross, anew to be

With Jesus crucified, we shall, ere long,
The ransomed saints and our dear Saviour see,
And join, with harp in hand, in that new song.

CUDDLE DOON.-ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' muckle faucht an' din.

"Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues:
Your father's comin' in."

They never heed a word I speak.

I try to gie a froon;

But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid

He aye sleeps next the wa'

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes,
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance:
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."

The mischief's in that Tam for tricks:
He'd bother half the toon.

But aye I hap them up, and cry,

66

'Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!""

At length they hear their father's fit;
An', as he steeks the door,

They turn their faces to the wa',
While Tam pretends to snore.

"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.

"The baírnies, John, are in their beds,
An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsels,

We look at oor wee lambs.

Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.

I lift wee Jamie up the bed,

An' as I straik each croon,

I whisper, till my heart fills up,
'Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon !"

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The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi' mirth that's dear to me;

But soon the big warl's cark an' care

Will quaten doon their glee.

Yet, come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon

Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,
'Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

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LODGE NIGHT.

Hearing a confused noise in front of my house the other night, writes a correspondent, I threw up the window to ascertain the cause. I observed a dark object clinging to the

lamp-post that stands sentinel in front of my door; and listening attentively, I overheard the following soliloquy: Mariar's waitin' up for me! I see the light in her win'er. What the deu-deuce does she act so fool-(hic) foolish for on lodge-lodge-nights? 'S'well enough to stay up on o'rrer nights-but's all blame nonsense, ye know, to wait for a fell'r on lodge (hic) nights. She knows 's'well as I do, busin' 'sgot to be 'tended to-committee's got to report, an' var'us o'rrer little matters-she ought'er 'ave more sense. I-I'll catch f-ffits, tho', I know I shall. Said she had the head-(hic) headache when I left 'er-told me not to stay out longer'n I could 'elp. Well, I didn't! how could I help it? Besides, I'll have the headache worse'n she will'n the mor-nin'. So b-blamed stupid in her to get the headache when she knew I'd bizbizness to 'tend to. Ah! these women, these women, they'll never (hic) learn anythin', never:

"So let the world wag as wide as it will,

I'll be gay and (hic) happy still.'

“Ha, ha, ha! (hic). Wonder what's become of Bulger! Left 'im settin' on a curbstone. Rain'n' like blazes, and the war'rer up to his middle. He thought he was at Niag-(hic) Niagara Falls. Says'e, says'e, 'Spicer, my boy, ain't this glor'us? Don't ye hear the ra-rapids?' I was strik'n' out for home as ra-(hic) rapidly as I could. 'T's pity for Bulger, 'cause I don' think he can swim; and he hates-ha, ha, ha! (hic)-hates war'rer like p-poison. Wish I wa' s'ome and in bed. B-r-r-u-a-h! I'm all of a shiver! Clo's all wet outside, and I'm dry as thund'r inside. Think I'll tell Mariar I ju-jumped overboard to save a feller-screecher from (hic) drowning. Then she-she'd want to know what I did with the fell-(hic) feller-screecher. So that won't do. She's got a pretty good swallow, but―egad! she-she can't swallow-ha, ha, ha! (hic) -no drowned man, you know. Tha-that's a leetle too much! She's taken some awful heavy doses of lie from me, but I'm afraid the drown'd chap would choke her."

At this juncture a guardian of the public peace approached and asked the votary of Bacchus what he was doing there at that time of night, and why he did not go home.

"What'm I doin' here? Why, I'm holdin' on like grim death-that's what I'm doin'. Howsever, ole fell'r, I'm gl

Rain war'rer allers did
Say, you! can ye t-tell

(hic) a-ad to see ye. Fact is, I've been out'n the rain, and I've got a leetle so-soaked, d'ye see? make consirable 'p-pression on me. me why I'm like a pick-(hic) picket-guard? But I know you can't; 's'no use askin' you p'lice fell'rs anything. But's good n-notwithstan'n-he, he, he! (hic)-for me. I--I'll tell ye why I'm like a blackguar'—I mean a p-picket-guard. Because I c-can't leave my p-post until I'm re-(hic) relieved! Plice fell'r, d'ye see that shutter over the way, the one wi' the green Venetian houses in front, three doors to go up to the step? That's my (hic) house, and therein dwells my sasainted Mariar. Did you ever belong to a spout-shop? But I s'pose not. As the charming P-Portia says:

"That light we see is burning in my hall;

How far that little beam throws his c-candles!

So shines a good (hic) deed in a naughty world.' "Th-then pity the sorrows of a poor young man, whose tangled legs have b-b-brought him to this spot. Oh, relieve and take him home at once, and heaven will ble-bless your store-when you get (hic) one."

The policeman kindly assisted him to his house and rang the bell. The door partially opened. I got a transient glimpse of a night-capped head, as our hero was hurriedly drawn in by unseen hands; and a shrill voice, that pierced the midnight air, was heard to say: "So! you're tight again, you brute!" The door was rudely slammed in the unof fending policeman's face, while I crept shivering to bed, wondering at the probable fate of “ Bulger.”

PARTING WORDS.-E. KENT.

Read at the close of her school, by the author, who has since gone
"to the Father's home,

Where the care-worn and the weary, and the little children dwell,
Where love-tones alone are echoed, where is breathed no sad farewell."
We are going homeward, homeward, soon must fall the
parting tear,

But unto my saddened spirit, children you are very dear; Days and weeks in quick succession, pleasantly have flown

away,

And 'mid hours of useful labor, brought us to this parting

day.

Now before we part, dear children; e'er we breathe the fond farewell,

Let us turn our vision backwards, and on other moments dwell;

You as pupils, I as teacher, have we striven to obtain

Something of God's holier blessings which shall be our future gain?

Ask yourselves the question, children, have you through these wintry hours,

Toiled to gain some useful knowledge to increase your mental powers?

Felt your spirit stronger growing as you gained some wholesome truth,

Which hath made you wiser, better, in the spring-time of your youth?

Now-to-morrow-and forever, shall these words of truth and love,

As a beacon, guide you onward, unto brighter lands above; As ye gather in your childhood, so when riper days shall dawn,

Shall ye reap the full fruition of the hours that are gone. Heed ye then, oh! cherished spirits, lest ye sow the seeds of woe

That shall bear a fruitful harvest in this changeful world below,

Cloud old age with care and sorrow that had else been pure and free,

Crowned with thorns instead of roses-not as it should ever be.

Life at best hath cares and sorrows which to each and all

must come;

He who takes them with the sunshine, happier makes his friends and home,

Strews sweet flowers around his pathway, makes his life a life of love;

Makes his home a home of sunshine, as the Father's home above.

We are going forth to labor, here life's duty must divide, No more in this pleasant school-room shall we labor side by side.

I have loved you, dearest children, I have striven to impart Knowledge gathered by the wayside, that will beautify the heart.

Not alone on science's hill-side have you gleaned, or faltering trod,

I have tried to lead you nearer to the bosom of your God; To be kind to one another, pure in action, pure in speech, Lofty in your thoughts and feelings-this, oh! this I've tried to teach.

If I've failed in this great mission, if I've ever seemed unkind,