And they said as they'd got the Queen's orders
To take away Georgie once more!

And in they all come, the Queen's soldiers,

With their handcuffs for poor George's wrists; The Queen's got more right than the motherNeither him nor his mother resists!

Poor lad! he warn't fit for a soldier,
With his nineteen years only just told;
He was mad with his loss when he 'listed,
And his life, for a shilling, he sold!

Yes, sergeant, he'll "stick to his bargain;"
He's there, in the room at the back,
And, as truly as bloodhounds, ye've scented
And followed the lad on his track!

But he starv'd for a week in the marshes
Afore he crawl'd in at that door;

An' weary, broke down, an' half dying,
He dropp'd, fainting dropp'd, on the floor!

So step gently, sergeant, step gently,

For God's sake, men, don't let your guns clank, And the mothers who bore ye and nurs'd ye,

For this mother's sake shall ye thank!

And the big-bearded men laid their muskets
Alongside the old cottage wall;

And we, all of us, went in so softly

You couldn't ha' heard a footfall.

And there she was bent o'er his pillow,
Her face hiding his from our sight,

And her hands in his black hair soft twining,
And looking like dead hands, so white!

The sergeant's hand plac'd on her shoulder,
The sergeant's voice whispering low,

Made her start, made her rise, made the hot tears
Adown her pale face quickly flow!

"What will ye?" she wailed. "Want ye Georgie, Come ye me and my poor lad between ?"

"He must," says the sergeant, "go with us: He belongs to his country, his Queen!"

"Stand off! he is mine, come not near him!

He has breath'd in these arms his last breath;
No Queen nor no army can claim him,
He belongs to his mother, and death!"

An' my heart a'most stopp'd in its beating,]
As I look'd on the widow's white cheek,

While the soldiers with bent heads stepp'd backwards,
And the sergeant in vain tried to speak!

The light in his young eyes were darkened,
His voice with death's silence was dumb.
Never more, Dan, shall poor Georgie answer
Friend, mother, or trumpet, or drum!

Once more she cried out, "Get ye gone, men!
Your comrade no longer does heed

Your words, or your threats, or your lashes-
My poor lad from his oath death has freed!"

An' she fell on her knees by his bedside,
And kiss'd the dead face o'er and o'er.
Thou needn't be 'sham'd o' thy tears, Dan,
Let 'em come, if they ne'er come afore!

It was said as young Georgie had 'scap'd them;
So he has; the Queen's order is nought.
No laws nor court martials can touch him,
The Lord his discharge, Dan, has bought.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sod with our bayonets turning,

WOLFE

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we knew by the distant random gun,
That the foe was, sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone in his glory.

THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN.

A BALLAD OF NEWPORT.
From the Providence Journal.

There's a little old woman lives over the way,
In a gambrel-roofed cottage unpainted and gray,
And where the brown grapevine is climbing across,
The shingles are covered with patches of moss.

ANON.

By the wood fire-side, in the winter she sits
In a list-bottomed rocker, and sings as she knits
In a quavering voice with a tremulous croon,
And the click of her needle keeps time to the tune.

Her Bible she reads, slowly turning the leaves,
And she garners bright grain from its beautiful sheaves;
And the tears dim her eyes as she lifts them on high
In search of her treasure laid up in the sky.

In her best Sunday gown, whether ailing or well,
She trots to her meeting at sound of the bell.
And she sits in her pew like a wren on a perch,
This little gray dame in a Puritan church.

Our very old people remember, they think,

When her hair was as glossy and black as a mink,
And her cheeks red as roses, her teeth white as pearls,
And this little old woman the fairest of girls.

She had a dear lover, alack and a day!

A sailor who sailed from the beautiful bay;

And the summers may blush and the winters may pale, But their sun never shines on his home coming sail.

At a little round table from over the sea,

She sits at the sunset and pours out her tea,
And the delicate cup and the saucer are white
As a floating pond lily, just kissed by the light.

And a ship under sail, with its flag at the mast,
All laden with memories brought from the past,
Is painted upon them as life-like and fair
As the mirage that floats in the orient air.

His ship that he sailed in, his sweetheart to wed,
By others forgotten-the sunset grows red-
But the little old woman just murmurs a prayer,
And smiles as she knows that her lover is there.

But a day will soon come when the lilac's perfume
Through the half open window will float through the room,
And the house will be quiet and she be at rest.

With a single white rose on her motionless breast.

And the angels will come with their glittering wings,
While the parson he prays, and the choir it sings,
And bear to the home that is fairer than day
The little old woman from over the way.

A LITTLE CRUTCH.

From the Pittsburgh Commercial.

A widow-she had only one,
A puny and decrepit son;

But day and night,

Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all-
The widow's mite.

The widow's mite-ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer;

And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then- and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much;

She has-He gave it tenderly-
Much faith; and carefully laid by
A little crutch.

ANON.

THE IMPOSSIBLE WOMAN.

From Once a Month.

ANON.

Calmly looking on at the unseemly controversy now raging between the sexes, and gathering from the current literature what man expects from woman, we fear there is nothing in store but failure on the one side and disappointment on the other. In the first place, the being that