MY MOTHER.

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?

My mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?

My mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way

And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who was so very kind to me?

?

My mother.

My mother.

Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,

I hope I shall reward thy care,

My mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arms shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My mother.

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THE DOCTOR.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
"T will be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,

My mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with sorrow in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise

THE DOCTOR.

My mother.

ANN TAYLOR.

FROM WILLIE WINKIE.

O, Do not fear the doctor;
He comes to make you well,

To nurse you like a tender flower,

And pleasant tales to tell;

He brings the bloom back to your cheek,

The blithe blink to your eye,

An 't were not for the doctor,
My bonnie bairn might die.

O, who would fear the doctor,

His powder or his pill

You just a wee bit swallow take,

And there's an end of ill.

He'll make you sleep sound as a top,

A kind man is the doctor,
As many poor folk ken;

He spares no toil by day or night
To ease them of their pain;
And O, he loves the bairnies well
And grieves whene'er they cry, -
An 't were not for the doctor,
My bonnie bairn might die.

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ALEXANDER Smart.

THE HAND-POST.

THE night was dark, the sun was hid
Beneath the mountain gray:
And not a single star appeared,
To shoot a silver ray.

Across the path the owlet flew,

And screamed along the blast, And onward with a quickened step, Benighted Henry passed.

At intervals, amid the gloom

A flash of lightning played,

And showed the ruts with water filled,

And the black hedge's shade.

E

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THE HAND-POST.

Again in thickest darkness plunged,
He groped his way to find;

And now he thought he spied beyond
A form of horrid kind.

In deadly white it upward rose,
Of cloak or mantle bare,
And held its naked arms across,
To catch him by the hair.

Poor Henry felt his blood run cold

At what before him stood;

But well, thought he, no harm, I'm sure,
Can happen to the good.

So calling all his courage up,

He to the goblin went;

And eager through the dismal gloom

His piercing eyes he bent.

And when he came well nigh the ghost
That gave him such affright,
He clapped his hands upon his side,
And loudly laughed outright.

For 't was a friendly hand-post stood
His wand'ring steps to guide;
And thus he found that to the good
No evil can betide.

THE HAND-POST.

And well, thought he, one thing I've learnt,

Nor soon shall I forget, Whatever frightens me again,

To march straight up to it.

And when I hear an idle tale
Of goblins and a ghost,
I'll tell of this my lonely ride,
And the tall, white Hand-post.

ANN TAYLOR.

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