128

Beer and the Bible.

"Look not on the wine when it shineth
With sparkles of ruby light,
When it giveth its richest colour,
And moveth itself aright.
At the last it bites like a serpent;
Of its hidden venom beware!
Woe, woe unto him who layeth

For his neighbour this deadly snare!"

Then between your beer and the Bible,
Say, where can the union be?
The Bible makes slaves into freemen,
But beer makes slaves of the free.
Slaves who would sell their birthright,
And all unto manhood dear,
Home, kindred, and honour and country,
And even their souls for beer.

Yours, O ye servants of Mammon,
Yours are the temples of sin,
With snares to entrap the thoughtless,
And lure the unwary within.
Crime, death, and disease, and sorrow,
Ye spread o'er the land like a flood,
And the gold that fills your coffers
Is the price of a nation's blood.

But a curse is on your treasures,
Bitter, and deep, and low;
The curse of the broken-hearted,
Wrung out from their cheerless woe;
The curse of the shuddering victim,
Who knows, yet hastes to his doom,
Drawn ever down by the whirlpool
Whose depths are a hopeless tomb.

Ye faithful servants of Mammon,
His service has made you strong;
But truth and justice are stronger;
Your triumph will not be long.
For the light shines brighter and brighter,
That is bringing a better day,
When the nation, awaking from slumber
Will sweep your fetters away.

The Busy Housewife.

THE BUSY HOUSEWIFE.

DR. LEGRAND.

129

I

Of hands this very minute;

I'd soon put all my work to rights,
Nor stay long to begin it.

Here's a big washing to be done,
One pair of hands to do it
Sheets, shirts, and stockings, coats and pants-
How will I e'er get through it?

Dinner to get for six or more,
No loaf left o'er from Sunday,
And baby cross as he can be--
He's always so on Monday.

And there's the cream, it's getting sour,
I must forthwith be churning,
And here's John wants a button on--
Which way shall I be turning?

'Tis time the meat was in the pot,

The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from the boil-

Oh, dear! the baby's waking!

Oh, dear! if Frank should just come home,
And find things in this bother,

He'll just begin and tell me all
About his tidy mother:

How nice her kitchen used to be,
Her dinners always ready
Exactly when the clock struck one--
(Hush, hush, dear little Freddy.)

And then will come some hasty word
Right out before I'm thinking-
They say that hasty words from wives
Set sober men a-drinking.

Now isn't that a fine idea,

That men should take to sinning, Because a weary, half-sick wife Can't always smile so winning?

130

How dearly God must love us.

When I was young I used to earn
My living without trouble;
Had clothes and pocket-money too,
And hours of leisure double.

I never dreamed of such a fate,

When I, a lass! was courted

Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairywoman, and scrub generally, doing the work of six,

For the sake of being supported!

HOW DEARLY GOD MUST LOVE US.

H

S. W. PARTRIDGE.

OW dearly God must love us,
And this poor world of ours,

To spread blue skies above us,
And deck the earth with flowers!
There's not a weed so lowly,
Nor bird that cleaves the air,
But tells in accents holy,

His kindness and His care.

He bids the sun to warm us,

And light the path we tread;
At night, lest aught should harm us,
He guards our welcome bed:
He gives our needful clothing,
And sends our daily food;
His love denies us nothing
His wisdom deemeth good.

The Bible, too, He sends us,
That tells how Jesus came,
Whose blood can save and cleanse us
From guilt, and sin, and shame.
Oh may God's mercies move us
To serve Him with our powers,
For oh how He must love us,
And this poor world of ours.

(From "Rhymes worth Remembering."

The Drowned Boy.

THE DROWNED BΟΥ.

THOMAS MILLER.

181

[This is a true tale; I was present when the poor boy was drowned in the river Trent; I carried some portion of his clothes to the schoolmaster, and followed his remains to the grave.]

PART I.

THE simple story I relate

Is very sad but very true;
And it is of a schoolboy's fate,
A merry lad whom well I knew,
That I this sorrowful story tell,
Which on his thirteenth birthday fell.

I well remember on that day

His widowed mother's pleasant smile ;
How, ere we started off to play,
By Ashcroft's green and willowy isle,
To lure us back, in time for tea,
The large plum-cake she let us see.

And good advice she to us gave,
Which we aside did reckless throw,
One only promise did she crave, -
Into the river not to go.
We gave that promise, went away-
Alas! that we should disobey.

We left the vale and hills behind,

The wooden mill, and common wide ;
Then did by circling footpaths wind
Our way up to the river's side.
Now in, now out, now seen, now hidden,
We came unto that spot forbidden.

Brightly the rippling river run,

In light and shadow, here and there,
And quivered in the summer sun,
A golden pathway shining clear,
That seemed to stretch out far away,
As if to reach the gates of day.

182

The Drowned Boy.

"Let's bathe," said one; "the day is warm,
We know there is no danger here."
So we agreed, and thought no harm;
For oft before we had bathed there.
He was the first to lead the way,
Whose birth we welcomed on that day.

There was no danger near the shore,
While within depth we did remain,
Nor ventured where the eddies tore

The jetty round, then met again:
'Twas said, no bottom could be found
Where they went ever boiling round.

We, who could swim, went far away,
Some plashed beneath the willows dank,
Others upon the greensward lay,
Or idly gazed from off the bank,
Until a shrill cry rent the air,
Which made our very hearts despair.

PART II.

Although 'tis many years ago,
I feel my conscience still upbraid
That I deceived his mother so,

And her strict orders disobeyed;
And I would warn you for his sake
Never your solemn word to break.

Amid the eddies' boiling roar

We saw his head move round and round;
And as his eyes turned to the shore,
He sank within that gulf profound.
On rolled the water as before,
Where he had sunk to rise no more.

Mute, horror-struck, we stood aghast!
Looking where the deep eddies lay;
And one poor boy exclaimed at last,
"Oh what will his dear mother say?"
Another said, "His birthday, too;
Oh, what will his poor mother do?"