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She every Sunday goes to church,

Nor sleeps nor chatters there; Her caps are of the plainest kind,

Save one for Sunday's wear.

She often says " she hopes above,

To meet her husband dear:" She rents a cot at fifteen pounds,

And pays it every year. She always was industrious,

And rises now betimes; She's called by all the neighbours round,

"The Good Old Mrs. Grimet."

"FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER."

BY Kits. POLLEN.

"Flow on, thou shining river,"

Flow gaily to the sea;
Flow on in beauty ever,
With all thy melody.
Where has thy gentle current strayed I

Teach all thy joyous tale to me;
Let it flow on through light and shade;
My song shall follow thee.

Through meadows now meander,

With graceful sweet delay; And now, through green woods wander, Where scarcely peeps the day: Now, where the lofty bank hangs o'er,

Pursue thy wild, romantic way;
Down the steep rocks now swiftly pour,
Like time, that cannot stay.

Its murmurs now increasing,
On thy glad current goes;
And now, with roar unceasing,
The rapid torrent flows;
And now, all tossed in feathery foam,

Sparkling with rainbow light it glows;
It seems impatient for its home,
And hastening to repose.

Flow on, thou shining river,

Thou soon shalt reach the sea;
Thus we are passing ever,
And haste away like thee.
Wave after wave, in ceaseless flow,

Moves onward to eternity:
O may the stream thy gladness know,
And thy sweet melody!

SHE IS NOT ON THE SUNNY LEA.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

She is not on the sunny lea,

She is not by the shady brook, She is not where she used to be,

By her ain mither's ingle-nook; And weary falls the gloomy night,

And weary drags the heavy day, Since she is gone that made them bright,

My ain dear love, that's far away.

I wander sadly roun' an' roun'

To every place we loved so well,— The hill-side where the sun went down,

The hawthorn in the flowery dell; But oh, I miss her sad and sair,

Where we thegither knelt to pray,— The village kirk,—that sees nae mair

My ain dear love, that's far away.

I canna see her light step trip,

That dared me to the merry race, I canna touch my eager lip

To her sweet modest blushin' face;
Her soft, soft hand to clasp in mine,

I miss it sairly a' the dav,
And oh, my heart, it aches for thine,

My ain dear love that's far away.

I SEE—I SEE A BRIGHT—BRIGHT STAR.

BY ISAAC C. PRAY.

I See—I see a bright—bright star

Upon the moon-lit sea—
Oh no! it is the gondola

Which brings my love to me;
For gaily—gaily now it flies,

Nor heeds it yon deep sea,
While notes of love with richness rise,—

Those notes how dear to me!

Ah me—ah me! no brighter star

Could in my vision be,
Than my own love's light gondola

Upon the moon-lit sea,
Where brightly—brightly gleams each oar

The rippling waves among,
While turn the boatmen to the shore,

And sounds my lover's song.

Those notes—those notes are dearer far

Now floating o'er the sea,
Than beams from off the pilot-star

To mariners can be.
But gaily—gaily comes my star,

My lover's form I see—
How sweetly sounds his light guitar!

"I come my love to thee."

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NAY, LADY, ASK ME NOT TO DWELL.

BY NATHANIEL GREENE.

Nay, lady, ask me not to dwell

Upon the theme you gave;
For, living only in the past,

I could but hope to save
Some relic from oblivion's shore,
Which time is stealing from my store.

In earlier and in happier days,
When life was bright and new,

I yielded all my heart to love,
And felt and wrote like you.

But now, my friend, that dream is past—

A dream too sweet, too pure to last.

Alas, it is a saddening thought

That life's delightful spring,
With all its fresh and budding hopes,

So soon should spread its wing—
Deserting hearts, one moment blest,
Then left to wither in the breast.

But thus it is;—and memory
Is all that can remain—

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