RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair, "Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife! "If you 're the maister o' the house, An' I ken best what's i' the house, - "Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, An' ca' it what please.' ye Sae up she gat an' made the brose, They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose, An' aye their lips played smack; They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Gone to his death-bed, Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Gone to his death-bed, nd the briers all be. '' waits. and died. LBC. le peases I aac ash he was stemning succeed; Nor pride in rusticskill, although we knew A pride in honest fame, by virtue gaines, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ed. mean, whim; Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his denied) That in yon house for ruined age provide, And they are just; when young, we give you all, And then for comforts in our weakness call. Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To join your poor and eat the parishbread? But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need: He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend; But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die: Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." fate, He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. Round the bald polish of that honored head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: .. But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor. SAMUEL ROGERS. [1763-1855.] A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring Where first our marriage-vows were given, ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, |