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Soon shall spring, with smiles and blushes,

Steal upon the blooming year,
Then, amid the verdant bushes,

Thy sweet song shall warble clear ;-
Then shall I too, joined with thee,
Taste the sweets of liberty.
Should some rough, unfeeling Dobbin, [1]

In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,

And confine thee in a cage ;
Then, poor Robin, think of me,
Think-and sigh for liberty.
Liberty, thou brightest treasure

In the crown of earthly joys,
Source of gladness, soul of pleasure,

All delights beside are toys.
None but prisoners like me
Know the worth of liberty.

Montgomery.

33.-PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST. A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest Had once his integrity put to the test; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And asked him to go and assist in the job. He was very much shock’d, and answer'd " Oh

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What! rob our poor neighbour! I pray you don't

go, [1] Dobbin a word chosen to express a rude, inhuman fellow.

Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread . Then think of his children, for they must be fed.”

" You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, we'll give you a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.”

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They spoke, and Tom ponder'd—" I see they will
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.

“ If this matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang, till they dropp'd from the

tree; But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, He will lose none by me, though I get a few."

His scruples thus silenc'd, Tom felt more at ease, And went with his comrades the apples to seize; He blam'd and protested, but join'd in the plan; He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

Couper.

34.—THE BARLEY-MOWERS' SONG.

Barley-mowers, here we stand,
One, two, three, a steady band ;
True of heart and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest trim;

All a-row, with spirits blithe,

Now we whet the bended scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Side by side, now bending low,
Down the swaths (1) of barley go,
Stroke by stroke, as true's [2] the chime
Of the bells, we keep in time;
Then we whet the ringing scythe,

Standing 'mong the barley lithe, [3]
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink !

After labour cometh ease,
Sitting now beneath the trees,
Round we send the barley wine.
Life-infusing, clear and fine;
Then refreshed, alert, and blithe

Rise we all and whet the scythe,
Rink-u-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink !

Barley-mowers must be true,
Keeping still the end in view,
One with all, and all with one,
Working on 'till set of sun,
Bending all with spirits blithe,

Whetting all at once the scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink !

Day and night, and night and day,
Time the mower will not stay,
We may hear him in our path,

By the falling barley swath : [1] Swaths—lines of grass or corn cut down by the [2] True's—for true as. [3] Flexible waving.

mower.

While we sing with voices blithe,

We may hear his ringing scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Time, the mower, cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small;
Learn we then for him to grow
Ready, like the field we mow,
Like the bending barley lithe,

Ready for the whetted scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink !

Mary Howitt.

35.—WE ARE SEVEN. (A simple child dear brother Jim,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death ? ) I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head. “ Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be ?" “ How many ? seven in all,” she said,

And, wondering, looked at me. “ And where are they, I pray you tell ?”

She answered, “ Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

“ Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother ;
And in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.”

“ You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea ;
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell,

Sweet maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little maid reply,

" Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“ You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.”

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied, Twelve steps or more from mother's door,

And they are side by side.

“ My stockings there I often knit,

My 'kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit-

I sit and sing to them.

“ And, often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer

And eat my supper there.

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