HOW'S MY BOY?

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman, Yonder down in the town;

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy - my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor:
Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no.

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton.""

"And why should I speak low, sailor,

About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him over the town.

Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down."

What care I for the ship, sailor ;
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound

Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother.

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him and no other.

How's my boy-my boy?"

SYDNEY DOBELL

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

SHE'S gane to dwall in Heaven, my lassie!
She's gane to dwall in Heaven:
Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God,
For dwallin' out o' Heaven!

O what'll she do in Heaven, my lassie?
O what'll she do in Heaven?

She'll mix her ain thochts wi' angels' sangs,
An' mak them mair meet for Heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie :

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie !

Low there thou lies!

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,

Nor frae it will arise.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie :
Fu' soon I'll follow thee.

Thou's left me naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness' sel' wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cauld face, my lassie;
I looked on thy death-cauld face:
Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fadin' in its place.

i looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie:
I looked on thy death-shut eye;

An' a lovelier light in the brow o' Heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy an' calm, my lassie:
Thy lips were ruddy an' calm;

But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven
To sing the evening psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie :
There's naught but dust now mine.
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay ahin'?

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Contending still with men untaught and wild,
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift, my precious flower was given,
A very summer fragrance was its life;

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,
When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart:
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home-solace nerved me for my part,

And of the babe I was exceeding glad.

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying;
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!)
And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying,
Took gently home the child of my delight.

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded from our love away:
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day.

My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done.

And daily to my board at noon and even

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, Gazing the while on death, without its sting.

And of the ransom for that baby paid

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made:

Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed !

There were two milk-white doves, my wife had nourished;
And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand
Marking how each the other fondly cherished,
And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand!

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying,
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest;
And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast.