She smil'd on my cottage, and buddings of green
On elder and hawthorn and woodbine were seen-
The crocus came forth with its lilac and gold,
And fair maiden snowdrop stood pale in the cold-
The primrose peep'd coyly from under the thorn,
And blithe look'd my cottage on that happy morn.
But spring pass'd away, and the pleasure was o'er,
And I left my cottage to claim it no more.
Farewell to my cottage-afar must I roam,
No longer a cottage, no longer a home.

For bread must be earned, though my cot I resign,
Since what I enjoy shall with honour be mine;
So up to the great city I must depart,

With boding of mind and a pang at my heart.
Here all seemeth strange, as if foreign the land,
A place and a people I don't understand;
And as from the latter I turn me away,

I think of old neighbours now lost, well-a-day,
I think of my cottage full many a time,

Á nest among flowers at midsummer prime;

With sweet pink, and white rock, and bonny rose

bower,

And honeybine garland o'er window and door;

As prim as a bride ere the revels begin,
And white as a lily without and within.
Could I but have tarried, contented I'd been,
Nor envied the palace of lady the queen.
And oft at my gate happy children would play,
Or sent on an errand well pleased were they;

A pitcher of water to fetch from the spring,
Or wind-broken wood from my garden to bring ;
On any commission they'd hasten with glee,
Delighted when serving dear Ima or me—
For I was their "uncle," and "gronny" was she.
And then as a recompense sure if not soon,
They'd get a sweet posy on Sunday forenoon,
Or handful of fruit would their willing hearts cheer;
I miss the dear children-none like them are here,
Though offspring as lovely as mother e'er bore
At eve in the park I can count by the score.
But these are not ours-of a stranger they're shy,
So I can but bless them as passing them by;
When ceasing their play my emotion to scan,
I dare say they wonder "what moves the old man.”

Of ours, some have gone in their white coffin shroud,
And some have been lost in the world and its crowd;
One only remains, the last bird in the nest,
Our own little grandchild, the dearest and best.
But vain to regret, though we cannot subdue
The feelings to nature and sympathy true,

Endurance with patience must bear the strong part-
Sustain when they cannot give peace to the heart;
Till life with its yearnings and struggles is o'er,
And I shall remember my cottage no more.

AN APPEAL.

WRITTEN DURING THE POTATO FAMINE IN IRELAND, FIRST PUBLISHED IN "THE MANCHESTER EXAMINER."

SONS of England, noble England, listen to my verse

awhile;

We that once were deemed happy, now have little cause to smile ;

We that once were deemed happy, whether rich or honest poor,

Hear the ghastly famine howling, and the wolf is at the door.

Sons of England, noble England, Scotia tells a woeful

tale;

And from all the land of Erin, comes a moan upon

the gale;

Out of billow-seated Erin, wakes a wild and fearful

cry,

"Noble sons of noble England, we of hunger faint and die.

"We have thousands here in England, honest men of humble state;

"Who, in more than human labour, yield to nothing less than fate;

"Scotia too, is fellow worker, on the loom and at the plough ;

"And had Erin striven wisely, she had not been foodless now.

"But the past be all forgotten, what is present let us mend;

"Heaven sends a timely warning, and 'twere well if we attend;"

Down to Scotland, o'er to Erin, throw your gold as free as dew;

But whilst you are true to others, to your Saxon poor

be true.

True to those who labour daily, in the mine and in the mill;

To the hardy peasant braving, Summer's heat, and Winter's chill;

To the worker at the anvil, and the hewer of the

stone;

And the pale one, weaving, when the stars have left him all alone.

True to head, for ever thoughtful, hearts all honest to the core;

Ne'er in difficulties doubtful, resting not till labour's

o'er;

Down to Scotland, o'er to Erin, freely cast your sunny gowd;

But whilst you are thus endowing, know by whom you are endow'd.

125

Sons of England, noble England, be you bountiful

but just;

Wiser rule for wildered Erin, want we do, and have we must;

Meet her plaining with your plenty, until better days.

are seen;

Place her burden then, and leave it, where it ever should have been.

Sons of England, Saxon England, now let vile traducers quail;

Ye have never shrunk in danger, and in duty will not fail.

And altho' in shadows frowning, lightsome day hath sadly set,

There's a Sun behind the glooming, that will shine upon us yet.

EPITAPH,

ON A BOY, WHO, HAVING SUFFERED UNDER A LONG AND WASTING
SICKNESS, WAS FOUND UNEXPECTEDLY DEAD.

"LIE low, and thou shalt have good rest, my child," Spake his fond mother, as she smooth'd his bed;

The long-enduring sufferer meekly smil❜d.

At morn, his corse was there, his spirit fled !
And so, indeed, the patient child found rest,
His dust with dust, his soul with angels blest!