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“Good-bye, dearest!" soft and low,
Words of love and words of woe;
Still the river ripples by,
But it was our last good-bye!
There are griefs the heart may know,
Blighting all of life below;
Yet we live and journey on,
When our every hope is gone.

HEART'S LONGINGS.

I LONG to see my mother's hands
That sacred volume raise,
And join again my voice with hers
In songs of sacred praise;
And then withal, I long to kneel
Beside the altar there,

And hear again from father's lips
That humble, grateful prayer.

I long to gather, loved ones all,
Around the hearth of home,
And talk of joys we sometimes shared
Ere each began to roam;

To hear again the shouts of mirth
Far down the shady glen,
And hide the clouds that darkly hang
Between the now and then.

I long to stand beneath the roof
That sheltered dear ones all,
And list to hear my father's step

Just coming through the hall;
And I would have my mother's hands
Pressed gently on my brow,

And see her as she used to stand

And hear her accents low.

WRITE TO ME OFTEN, DARLING.

WRITE to me often, darling,

Sending words of kindly cheer, The path of life to soften,

Which so rugged seems and drear, Write to me in thy sadness,

And my tears shall flow with thine, Write in thy hours of gladnesss

It will send fresh charms to mine.

Write when thy soul is yearning,

For the good and true in life; When with pure impulse burning,

Thou art earnest in the strife, Write words of kind affection

And 'twill bring the past more near, Make words thy soul's reflection, Write as you would talk if here.

OF

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WILLIAM LYLE

WILLIAM

WILLIAM LYLE.

WILLIAM LYLE was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1822. His father having died at a comparatively early age, the entire responsibility and care of the boy developed upon his mother, a noble Scottish woman who, with limited means and a sincere faith in God's goodness, earnestly strove to perform the duty allotted to her. He received the rudiments of his education in the Lancasterian school of his native city, and at the age of twelve years removed with his mother to Glasgow, where a few years afterward he became apprenticed to a potter. He continued his education in a night school and became well advanced. In 1849, he married Janet Wylie of Kincardine, on the Forth, who still brightens his home. In 1862 Mr. Lyle was offered and accepted a position in England, and while there published a number of meritorious poems which commanded a great deal of attention, one in particular "The Grave of Three Hundred," which was honored by acceptance and thanks from Her Majesty. Some years later Mr. Lyle decided to emigrate to America. On his arrival here, he took up his residence in Rochester, N. Y., where he long held a position of trust and responsibility. He now resides in Woodbridge, N. J. J. D. R.

JAMIE'S PAIRTIN'.

MITHER, yer bairn is deein',
I'm wae to pairt wi' you,

But God I ken is waitin'

An' I'm his bairnie noo. Ye've aye been kind to Jamie Baith wi' yer heart an' han'; He'll no forget his mither In yon far better lan'.

He'll mind yer lovin' kisses, An' his weel-mended claes, An' hoo ye used to buckle

His sair, sair bluidin' taes. Mither, sit doon beside me, An' dry yer tearfu' ee; I'm gaun tae tell the angels Hoo guid ye've been to me.

I'll see my brither Willie

When I reach my new hame, An' I'll tell him his mammy Will also soon come hame. Then we will play thegither,

An' while the days awa', 'Till ye come up to heeven Beside yer bairnies twa.

Kiss me aince mair, my mither-
There's sugar on yer mou';
I'll gee that kiss to Willie—
He'll ken it comes frae you.
Tak' my han' at the pairtin',
The daylicht's growin' dim,
But see, God's staunin' waitin'-
Its never dark wi' him.

MARY.

As the craw flees tae its nest,
Tae shun the stormy weather,
As the bee aye wings its best

For hame among the heather, Sae yont the gait I travel straight, An' frae my coorse ne'er vary, In thocht I see, what's waitin' me, In yon wee cot wi' Mary.

As the burnie lilts alang
Tae the widenin' river,
Croonin' aye its simple sang,
Waitin' or turnin' never,

Juist sae my feet as sure an' fleet,
My heart as licht's a fairy,

Skirt roon' the braes, for something says
Ayont them a' is Mary.

Sune her cottage hame I see,
For I hae learned to love it,
Faster, like the craw I flee,

Tae reach the nest I covet.

Syne frae her mon' the hinney dew
I kiss, no' ae bit scarey,

The wild bee meets wi' nae sic sweets
As charm the lips o' Mary.

SWEETIES.

GUID wife o' mine, is no so lang
Sin' we were joined thegither;

I picked ye oot frae a' the thrang,
An' wudna hae anither.

Yer voice was music to my ear.
I lo'ed yer very shadow;

I thocht the simmer days were near
When ye cam' ower the meadow.

But noo, losh me, the change is great,
As sure's my name is Sandy,
It's aye het water-air' an' late-
Ye've turned a perfect randy.

375

I daurna ca' my nose my ain

For yer daft fishwife clatter, The simplest thing effects yer brain An' mak's ye mad's a hatter.

Listen, guid man: Afore we wed
Ye aye were kind an' pleasin',
But noo frae morn till time for bed

Ye'll neither rhyme nor reason.

Sweet words, sweet cakes, then worked the spell

Whilk was a thoosand pitiesMay be the faut lies wi' yerselJuist try me wi' the sweeties.

MOTHER'S OLD TEA CADDY.

Aн me, how this memory clings

Around the common things of life, And how each wee memento brings

The past through years of dark and strife. One is beside me, tarnished now,

But dear forever to my heart,

Nor care, nor loss, nor time's keen plow
Can rend its claims to love apart-
My mother's old tea caddy.

Here are the letters, dim and worn,
I read and answered long ago,
Before the thorns of life had torn

The tender feet that wander so.
Here, too, are notes of great things done,
When I thought earth was made for me,
But not one trophy-hardly won,
Can match the beauty I can see
In mother's old tea caddy.

Her wrinkled fingers, thin and frail,
Have often clasped it round about,
Then shook its scented grains like hail,
And poured the stated portion out.
Her dear old hands are stiff and cold
Beneath the turf on distant shore,
My own life tale is wellnigh told,
But my heart treasures at its core
Her battered, worn tea caddy.

How blest the heart that bears along

Some memories of kind deeds done, How sad when in the years that throng Come visions that we fain would shun. Amid too much I've done amiss

A sweet remembrance comes to me, And often I thank God for this, I cared that there was always tea In mother's old tea caddy.

JOSEPH BLOSSOM BLOSS.

JOSEPH

JOSEPH BLOSSOM BLOSS was born in Rochester, N. Y., November 22nd, 1839. He was educated in district school No. 14 and in Clover Street Seminary. He entered into the grocery business as a clerk when about eighteen years of age, and has, for many years, been a member of the wholesale house of G. C. Buell & Co., Rochester. In 1880 he published anonymously the "Morning Breath of June." He has contributed under different noms de plume both prose and poetry to the press. He is the youngest child of the late Hon. Wm. C. Bloss. Editor.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

"Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all to stand, .. having on the . . helmet of salvation, and taking the shield of faith, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God."

CAPTAIN of Faith, thy man at arms

Bowed with the weight of many years, Disabled by the hand of time,

Is halting in this vale of tears.

The welcome mandate of thy voice, Which bids him duty's path to seek,

His willing spirit gladly hears,

But his exhausted flesh is weak.

Yet still on Zion's walls he waits, For a relief with listening ear, To answer when thy trumpet calls, "Commander, I am here!"

From the hard battle fields for truth, No foe of thine could make him flee, For victory he gave thee praise,

And for defeat he blamed not thee.

Back to thy hand the sword he gives,
The shield and breastplate he lays down,
And where the warrior's helmet rests,
Place thou the Everlasting Crown.

And when we back to mother earth
Give him, whose life was so well spent,
Do thou, Creator of all good,

Grow flowers upon his grassy tent.

And bid thy winds that search all lands,

To bring the seed of some great tree, Deep plant thou it beside his grave, And nourished let it be.

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