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THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

'M wearing awa, Jean,

Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean;
There's nae cauld there, Jean;
The day's aye fair, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean;
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean;
My soul longs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye well, my ain Jean,
This world's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet, and aye be fain
In the land o’ the leal.

Lady Nairne.

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P

IPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray,

Pretty maid, slow wandering the way,

What's your name?” quoth he. “What's

your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold.”

« Little Bell,'' said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks.

“Bonny bird,” quoth she,
Sing me your best song before I go.
“Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell,” said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird ;

Full of quips and wiles, ;

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o’er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o’er and o’er

’Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And, from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear,

Little Bell,” piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern,
“Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return-

Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up away the frisky squirrel hies—
Golden woodlights glancing in his eyes.

And adown the tree
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one-
Hark, how blackbird pipes, and see the fun !

“Happy Bell !” pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade-
“Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me!”
Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare !
Little Bell gave each his honest share-

Ah, the merry three !

And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again

’Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shone out in happy overflow,

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray ;

Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene

Paused awhile to hear.

· What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly ?”
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,

“ Bell, dear Bell,” crooned he.

“Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair Murmured, “God doth bless with angels' care ;

Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee.”

Westwood. THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.

"O!

H, call my brother back to me!

I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee---
Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight-

Oh, call my brother back !

The flowers run wild-- the flowers we sowed

Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load-

Oh, call him back to me!”

“He could not hear thy voice, fair child,

He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled

On earth no more thou'lt see.

A rose's brief bright life of joy,

Such unto him was given;
Go-thou must play alone, my boy!

Thy brother is in heaven!
“ And has he left his birds and flowers,

And must I call in vain ?
And, through the long, long summer hours,

Will he not come again ?
And by the brook; and in the glade,

Are all our wanderings o’er ?
Oh, while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!'

Mrs. Hemans.

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