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87.— WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? What is that, Mother?—The lark, my child! The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays, Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, Mother ?—The dove, my son!—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that, Mother?—The eagle, boy!—
What is that, Mother ?—The swan, my love!
Doane. 83. — THE MILLER OF THE DEE.
There dwelt a miller hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;
No lark more blithe than he;
For ever used to be,—
"And nobody envies me !",
"Thou'rt wrong my friend I" said old King Hal,
"Thou'rt wrong as wrong can be; "For could my heart be light as thine,
"I'd gladly change with thee. "And tell me now what makes thee sing
"With voice so loud and free, "While I am sad, though I'm the King,
"Beside the river Dee."
The miller smiled and doff'd his cap:
"I earn my bread," quoth he; "I love my wife, I love my friend,
"I love my children three; "I owe no penny I cannot pay;
"I thank the river Dee, "That turns the mill that grinds the corn,
"To feed my babes and me."
"Good friend," said Hal, and sigh'd the while,
"Farewell! and happy be: "But say no more, if thou'dst be true,
"That no one envies thee.
"Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,—
"Thy mill my kingdom's fee! "Such men as thou art England's hoast,
"O miller of the Dee."
89. —THE BLIND BOY.
0 Sat what is that thing called Light,
What are the blessings of the sight?
You talk of wondrous things you see,
1 feel him warm, but how can he
My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play:
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Although a poor blind boy.
Cibber. 90.—MY GOOD RIGHT HAND.
I Pell into grief, and began to complain;
My courage revived, in my fortune's despite,
91.—GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
God save our noble Queen!
God save the Queen!
God save the Queen t
O Lord our God, arise!
And make them fall t
Confound their politics,
Thy choicest gifts in store,
Long may she reign!
God save the Queen!
PRINTED BT C. CULL, HOUGHTON STREET, STRAND.