I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, That sailor-man, he said he 'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of something-'t was a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"-dear me; what could he mean? With a "carpet swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green. He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him 66 sheer," -It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queerAnd then he hitched his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, -It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose. I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say A landsman said, "I twig the chap-he's been upon the Mill And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me very brown," and "nicely stowed the swag." -That 's French, I fancy, for a hat-or else a carpet-bag. I went and told the constable my property to track; are out ?" Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who'd "done me brown." His lordship very kindly said he 'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about." He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described “the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar boy! MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my grandma' tell, "BE WARNED IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL !” Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blowed!" Don't take too much of double X !-and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well! Ex. LXV.-THE MAID OF THE INN. SOUTHEY. WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek; Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way, As Mary, the maid of the inn. Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved; and young Richard had settled the day, But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 'T was in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and doors; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright, ""T is pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without." "A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied, "I, myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" With fearless good humor did Mary comply, The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Through the gateway she entered, she felt. not afraid, All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear,- The wind blew; the hoarse ivy shook over her head ;- The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold! "Cure the hat!" he exclaims; "Nay, come on, and first hide The dead body," his comrade replies ;— She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, Unable to utter a sound. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For, O God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew! Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, Not far from the inn it engages the eye, Ex. LXVI.-LOVE OF COUNTRY AND HOME. JAMES MONTGOMERY. THERE is a land, of every land the pride, The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ;- O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamschatka's plans, In pale Siberia's desolate domains; |