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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.

The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in Heaven?"
The little Maiden did reply,
"O Master! we are seven.'

"But they are dead, those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!"

"T was throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS,

SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

I HAVE a boy of five years old;

His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when Spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

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"For, here are woods, and green-hills warm
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my Boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And five times to the Child I said,
“Why, Edward, tell me why?"

His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain—
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded Vane.

Then did the Boy his tongue unlock;
And thus to me he made reply:
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock,
And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest Boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.

THERE's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Regi nald Shore,

Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not more

Than the height of a Counsellor's bag;

To the top of GREAT HOW* did it please them to climb:
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,
A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:
They built him and christened him all in one day,
An Urchin both vigorous and hale;

And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the North,
Coming on with a terrible pother,

From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away.
And what did these School-boys?-The very next day
They went and they built up another.

-Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
By Christian Disturbers more savage than Turks,
Spirits busy to do and undo:

At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag;
Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag;
And I'll build up a Giant with you.

THE PET-LAMB.

A PASTORAL.

HE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty Creature, drink!"

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied

A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.

No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.

Right towards the Lamb she looked; and from a shady
place

I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might

sing:

"What ails thee, Young One? what? Why pull so a
thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to
thy heart?

Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
This grass
is tender grass; these flowers they have no
peers;

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

"If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen
chain,

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain storms! the like thou needest

not fear

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my Father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by

none,

And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee

home:

A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst tho
roam?

A faithful Nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou knowest that twice a day I brought thee in this Can

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; The Lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with took, dew,

Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new pleasure shook.

"Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty

rare!

I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty Can the Maiden turned away:
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

* GREAT How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Kes

wick and Ambleside.

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-As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was
mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;

"Nay," said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

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