"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "If I'm a beggar born," she said, "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all you can," She said, "Not so; but I will know, "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear; "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, She clad herself in a russet gown, The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought, Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower, "If I come drest like a village maid, "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, Oh, and proudly stood she up; Her heart within her did not fail: He laughed a laugh of merry scorn, He turned and kissed her where she stood. "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next of blood "If you are not the heiress born, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." The Child on the Judgment Seat. Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart, The Master's work may make weary feet, Tennyson Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost, Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed, "No pleasant garden toils were mine, How camest thou on the judgment seat, 'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee, "I climbed on the judgment seat myself; For it grieved me to see the children around, "They wasted the Master's precious seed, They wasted the precious hours; They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruit, And what didst thou on the judgment seat, "Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, But they left me there forlorn; My voice was weak, and they heeded not, Or they laughed my words to scorn." Ah! the judgment seat was not for thee, And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame, The voice that shall sound there at eve, sweetheart, It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts, 'Should I see the Master's treasures lost, And not lift my voice (be it as weak as it may), Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart, Wait till the evening falls; The Master is near and knoweth all, But how fared thy garden plot, sweetheart, "Nay! that is saddest of all to me, That is saddest of all! My vines are trailing, my roses are parched, Go back to thy garden plot, sweetheart, And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines, Go make thy garden fair as thou canst, Perchance he whose plot is next to thine, And the next shall copy his, sweetheart, In the Master's voice of praise to all, In a look of his own for thee. By the Author of the "Cotta Family." Wanted, a Minister's Wife. At length we have settled a pastor: For the "smartest" man in the land, In a fit of desperation We took the nearest at hand. And really, he answers nicely To "fill up the gap,” you know; To "run the machine," and "bring up arrears," And make things generally go; He has a few little failings, His sermons are common-place quite, But his manner is very charming, And his teeth are perfectly white. And so, of all the "dear people," Not one in a hundred complains, Are so much better than brains. Wanted, a perfect lady, Delicate, gentle, refined, With every beauty of person, And every endowment of mind; Fitted by early culture To move in fashionable lifePlease notice our advertisement: "Wanted," etc. Wanted, a thoroughbred worker, Who well to her household looks; (Shall we see our money wasted By extravagant Irish cooks?) |