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“O is he really coming home, and shall I really

see My boy again, my owa boy, home; and when,

when will it be? Did you say soon?”—“Well, he is home ; keep

cool, old dame; he's here." “O Robert, my own blessed boy!”—“O mother

mother dear!"

THE PIPES AT LUCKYOW.-(5. G. I'hittir.)

Pipes of the misty moorlands,

Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,

The treble of the rills !
Not the braes of broom and heather,

Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower

Have heard your sweetest strain !
Dear to the lowland reaper,

And plaided mountaineer,-
To the cottage and the castle

The Scottish pipes are dear ;-
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch

O’er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music

The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle serpent

Near and nearer circles swept.

“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers -

Pray to-day!” the soldier said ; “To-morrow, death's between us

And the wrong and shame we dread.” Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,

Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing

Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden,

With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna, ye hear it ?-dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound !" Hushed the wounded man his groaning ;

Hushed the wife her little ones ;
Alone they heard the drum-roll

And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood

The Highland ear was true;
As her mother's cradle crowning

The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music

Through the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,

Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,

She knew the Campbell's call : “Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,–

The grandest o' them all.”

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,

And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee

Rose and fell the piper's blast!

Then a burst of wild thanksgiving

Mingled woman's voice and man's ; “God be praised the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans !”
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,

Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud

To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithesomely

The pipes of rescue blew !
Round the silver domes of Lucknow,

Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,

The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums

Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban,

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper,

And plaided mountaineer,To the cottage and the castle

The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch

O’er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music

The pipes at Lucknow played !

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“The silence of pure innocence
Persuades when speaking fails.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.-(Willis.) I love to look on a scene like this,

Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet gray ;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And it makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice

And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore years ;

And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true,-it is very true ;-

I'm old, and I "bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on; I am with you there,

In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,

And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the reedy floor,

And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go;
For the world, at best, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way ;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness

To see the young so gay.



Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave ;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

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