THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I'LL sing you a good old song, made by a good old

pate,

Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old

estate,

And who kept up his old mansion at a bountiful old rate,

With a good old porter to relieve the old poor at his gate,

Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows,

And swords, and good old bucklers, which had stood against old foes,

And 'twas there "his worship" sat in state in doublet and trunk hose,

And quaffed his cup of good old sack to warm his good old nose,

Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.

When winter old brought frost and cold, he opened house to all,

And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball:

Nor was the houseless wanderer e'er driven from his hall;

For while he feasted all the great, he ne'er forgot the small,

Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden

time.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years rolled swiftly by,

And autumn's falling leaf proclaimed the old man he must die.

He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life's latest sigh,

And mournful friends stood round his couch, and tears bedimmed each eye,

For the fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.

OUR SCHOOLMASTER.

WE used to think it was so queer
To see him in his thin, gray hair,
Sticking our quills behind his ear,

And straight forgetting they were there.

We used to think it was so strange
That he should twist such hair to curls,
And that his wrinkled cheek should change
Its color like a bashful girl's.

Our foolish mirth defied all rule,

As glances, each of each, we stolė, The morning that he wore to school A rosebud in his button hole.

And very sagely we agreed

That such a dunce was never known;

Fifty! and trying still to read

Love verses with a tender tone!

No joyous smile would ever stir

Our sober looks, we often said,

If we were but a schoolmaster,
And had, withal, his old, white head.

One day we cut his knotty staff
Nearly in two, and each and all
of us declared that we should laugh
To see it break, and let him fall.

Upon his old pine desk we drew
His picture, pitiful to see;

Wrinkled and bald, half false, half true,
And wrote beneath it, Twenty-three!

Next day came eight o'clock, and nine,
But he came not: our pulses quick
With play, we said it would be fine
If the old schoolmaster were sick.

And still the beech trees bear the scars
Of wounds which we that morning made,
Cutting their silvery bark to stars,
Whereon to count the games we played.

At last, as tired as we could be,
Upon a clay bank, strangely still,
We sat down in a row, to see

His worn-out hat come up the hill.

'Twas hanging on a peg; a quill

Notched down, and sticking in the band; And, leaned against his arm chair still, His staff was waiting for his hand.

Across his feet, his threadbare coat
Was lying, stuffed with many a roll
Of "copy-plates," and, sad to note,
A dead rose in the button hole.

But he no more might take his place, Our lessons and our lives to plan; Cold Death had kissed the wrinkled face Of that most gentle gentleman.

Ah me, what bitter tears made blind

Our young eyes, for our thoughtless sin, As, two and two, we walked behind

The long, black coffin he was in.

And all sad women now,

and men

With wrinkles and gray hairs, can see
How he might wear a rosebud then,
And read love verses tenderly.

Alice Carey.

THE GREAT-GRANDFATHER.

MOTHER'S grandfather lives still,
His age is fourscore years and ten;
He looks a monument of time,
The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load,
A happier man you will not see
Than he, whenever he can get

His great-grandchildren on his knee.