The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' mirth that's dear to me;

But sune the big warl's cark an' care

Will quaten doon their glee.

Yet come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon

Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,

"O bairnies, cuddle doon."

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

Light.

THE night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON.

What My Lover Said.

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom,
In the orchard path he met me;

In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume,
And I tried to pass, but he made no room,

Oh I tried, but he would not let me.
So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red,
With my face bent down above it,

While he took my hand as he whispering said-
(How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head,
To listen to all that my lover said ;

Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!)

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide,
And the low wet leaves hung over;
But I could not pass upon either side,
For I found myself, when I vainly tried,
In the arms of my steadfast lover.

And he held me there and he raised my head,
While he closed the path before me,

And he looked down into my eyes and said-
(How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead,
To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)

Had he moved aside but a little way,

I could surely then have passed him;
And he knew I never could wish to stay,
And would not have heard what he had to say,
Could I only aside have cast him.

It was almost dark, and the moments sped,

And the searching night wind found us,
But he drew me nearer and softly said-
(How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead,
To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the whispering wind around us !)

I am sure he knew, when he held me fast,
That I must be all unwilling;

For I tried to go, and I would have passed,
As the night was come with its dew, at last,

And the sky with its stars was filling.

But he clasped me close when I would have fled,
And he made me hear his story,

And his soul came out from his lips and said-
(How the stars crept out where the white moon led,
To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !)

I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell,
And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover,
Will carry my secret so safely and well

That no being shall ever discover
One word of the many that rapidly fell

From the soul-speaking lips of my lover;

And the moon and the stars that looked over

Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell
They wove round about us that night in the dell,
In the path through the dew-laden clover,
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell
As they fell from the lips of my lover.

HOMER GREENE.

What Does it Matter?

IT matters little where I was born,

Or if my parents were rich or poor;

Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn,
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.

But whether I live an honest man,

And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,
I tell you, brother, plain as I can,
It matters much.

It matters little how long I stay

In a world of sorrow, sin, and care; Whether in youth I am called away,

Or live till my bones and pate are bare.
But whether I do the best I can

To soften the weight of Adversity's touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow-man,
It matters much.

It matters little where be my grave,-
Or on the land or in the sea,

By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave,—
It matters little or nought to me.

But whether the angel Death comes down
And marks my brow with his loving touch,
As one that shall wear the victor's crown,
It matters much.

NOAH BARKER.

The Last Redoubt.

KACELYEVO's slope still felt

The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt;
For the last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;

His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.

"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried.

Then the name of Allah!" echoed wide,

And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured.

One fell, and a second quickly stopped

The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped ;
The second, a third straight filled his place;

The third, and a fourth kept up the race.

Many a fez in the mud was crushed,

Many a throat that cheered was hushed,

Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast.

Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.

In the redoubt a fair form towered,

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward; Brandishing blade with a gallant air;

His head erect and his bosom bare.

"Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;
But he waved them on with his waving sword.
"It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"

But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.

Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt ; He drew a pistol from out his belt,

And fired it blank at the first that set

Foot on the edge of the parapet.

Over that first one toppled; but on

Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone,
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,

Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.

"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,

And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honor full, but his life-blood spilt.

They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely and soft and round,
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,-
“Bismillah!" they cried, "'t is an infidel maid!"

Mehemet Ali came and saw

The riddled breast and the tender jaw. "Make her a bier of your arms," he said, “And daintily bury this dainty dead!

"Make her a grave where she stood and fell,

'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell.