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HUSH, my dear! lie still and slumber;

Holy angels guard thy bed, Heavenly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe! thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide ; All, without thy care or payment,

All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou 'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended,

And became a child like thee !


Soft and easy is thy cradle :

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birthplace was a stable,

And his softest bed was hay.

See the kindly shepherds round Him,

Telling wonders from the sky ! Where they sought Him, there they found Him,

With his Virgin Mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing :

Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing

Soothed and hushed the Holy Child.

Lo, He slumbers in his manger,

Where the horned oxen fed ;
Peace, my darling! here's no danger;

Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

May'st thou live to know and fear Him,

Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near Him :

See his face, and sing his praise !

I could give thee thousand kisses,

Hoping what I most desire : Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

Isaac Wais,



AT evening, when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit.
They sit at home, and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in


I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.


These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes,
And there the river, by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away,
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Story Books.

Robert Louis Stevenson.


WHEN I was a beggarly boy,

And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy,

But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for cold,

I had fire enough in my brain, And builded with roofs of gold

My beautiful castles in Spain !

Since then I have toiled day and night,

I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright

For the one that is mine no more.

Take, Fortune, whatever you choose;


snatch again :
I have nothing 't would pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain !

James Russell Lowell.


THE merry, merry lark was up and singing,

And the hare was out and feeding on the lea, And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, When


child's laugh rang through me. Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,
And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Waiteth there until the bells bring me.

Charles Kingsley.


THROUGH the silver mist

Of the blossom-spray
Trill the orioles : list

To their joyous lay! “ What in all the world, in all the world,” they say, “ Is half so sweet, so sweet, is half so sweet as

May ?"

“June! June ! June !"

Low croon

The brown bees in the clover.
“ Sweet! sweet! sweet!”

The robins, nested over.




“Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?

Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And


sall be his bride : And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen But aye

she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

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“ Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington,

And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen But aye

she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.


“ A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind


hair ;

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