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So dreadful does he feel, and lost To all respect, and tempest-tossed, His throbbing heart, his brain distressed, Yearn for some quiet place to rest. If sorrow is the road to bliss. Surely his way he cannot miss ; If self-abasement is the way To brighter skies and endless day. Then help him, God, to be content, To bear his cross till life is spent, And trust this rough and siony way Is the right path to endless day. Xabour E)ai2. ^ E sons of toil, ye men of might, In fellowship we thus unite, And join in heart and join in hand Your noble ranks, your cause so grand. So grand, because you are the men Who earn our daily bread, and then Ye mend our ways and dig our drains And keep us from those ague pains. Ye build our railroads on the street, And build them straight and true and neat ; Sometimes, for want ot some good guide, Ye build a little to one side. Far up the country in the woods Ye underbrush and cut the roads ; And cheerfully your songs ye sing, While on the pines your axes ring. Then m the spring when days grow long, We hear the well-known boatman's song Ring from the raft along the shore, While cheerfully he bends to oar. Then in the summer at the mill Ye work with heart and mind and will, Converting logs to boards and planks, Then ship them over to the Yanks. 3 '4 i LABOUR DAY. Our railroads too, all o'er the land, By your industry, by your hand, Were built, to wit, the C. P. R., Whose fame has spread both near and far. Ye printers, those who guide the press That's just now causing such distress, And making mighty men to fall, We could not spare you, not at all. Ye toil in brickyards all the day Work hard amongst the sticky clay, And build our houses trim and neat. An ornament to every street. Ye carpenters, with saw and plane, Work all day long with might and main, Fix roofs and gutters, lay the floors. Fit sash and blinds and hansf the doors. Ye plumbers too, with pipes of lead, And soldering-iron heated red. Fix up our cistern, bath and sink. And give us water for to drink. Ye painters too, who wield the brush, And in the holes the putty push, Ye decorate our homes so grand, We welcome you, an honoured band. Ye sons of toil, ye men of might, In fellowship we thus unite. We join in heart and join in hand Your noble rank, your cause so grand. I !■:■' m' !:' t6 LET NOT YOUR HEAET RB TROUBLEIA Xet not l|>our "tocart be ?Irouble&. X ET not your heart be troubled, Nor your spirits be oppressed, When the light of evening dies away As the sun sets in the vrest. Let not your heart be troubled, Nor tremble with dismay, When the postman brings the notice Th.it your note falls due to-day. Let not your heart be troubled When things go wrnnn at home, And little waves grow mountains high And roll and toss and foam. TLove anD Xaw. /THERE are in man two great desires That burn as bright as Christmas fires ; The first of these is a desire To dimb up high and yet still higher. The pole of excellence, and then To stand above all other men ; This vision haunts him night and morn, With this desire the man was born. Down in this world of squalor here. This world of poverty and fear. Is not his home, he yearns to fly To brighter worVjs away up high. ^ ♦ 4 Thus stung with hunger that's divine He thirsts to drink the heavenly wine, And satisfy his soul's desire And quench this yearning, burning fire. The other great desire in man Is to acquire the most he can ; He wants, for instance, to be strong, And wise and happy all day long. He wants to glow in vital bliss. And frets for fear that he should miss The atmosphere of pure delight In arts and music, might and right. And thousand other forms of joy A golden life without alloy, Our instinct is for brighter skies, Our brightest colour never dies. But some desires of man grow cold, And vanish like a tale oft told. But here is one that shines above And never dies, — its name is Love. 'm\ if ' 'if\ 11 ■ I II I 18 STORM. Storm. ! '^HE day's been dark, the sun's been hid behind the storm, Compass and rudder gone and sails all torn ; And helpless [ have drifted on the boisterous wMve Of my own dark passion and there seemed none to save. But night has come ; darkness has hid the day at last, And such a day ! how awful it has been, the day that's past. A duy of an jer^ spite and jealousy ; oh, how I mourn For the hearis I've wounded with sarcastic scorn. How hateful do I feel ; I dread with all my might To-morrow's sun ; I'd rather it was night. Then I might sleep away the misery of to-day Into forgetiulness, aud the past might pass away. Oh, that I might get rid of this old spite Which lurks within my soul and robs me of my quiet, I might be of some use to others hurled Against destruction's wall in this sin-stricken world. Oh. wretched man that I am ! who shall free Me from this dteadful double-minded me, And loose those iron bonds that tightly bind This demon to this would-be better mind '] My better self still yearns to help my friend Along this road of life, and ]end a helping hand. We do the bad and leave the good undone. ] 1 WHAT A WORLD OF HURRY SCURRY.— HE WHAT YOU ARE. I9 IKabat a World of Iburi'^sScuni). m HAT a wonderful creation, Rich and poor and good and bad, Thrown together in this nation, Makes the thinking mind grow sad. What a world of hurry-scurry, Disaf)pointed hopes and strife, Jealous)', discontent and worry, What a selfish, wretched life. Here wc see the tumult raging, Storms of hate whirl thick and fast. Thundering; out rebuke like fury, Bound to have revenge at last. Yes the heart grows sad and weary, And the world gets dark as night, To the man that's over fifty Sick and weary of the fight. me mbtit l^ou arc. m HAT e'er you be, be what you are. You're just the same as nature made you. Your very self is better far Than any artificial fellow. Be true to self and then you'll be True to the world in which you live. Truth always keeps the conscience free And scorns the man who would deceive. li I ■(I. 11 m II lliil 20 RESTLESSNESS. 1Rc0tlcse)K6e. % AST night I sat in my old arm-chair, Thinking ot all the worries and care, Of the day that is past, of the pleasures and pain That flash across this restless brain. From hour to hour, from morning till night, With lightning speed it wings its flight. O'er all the world, from shore to shore, And not content, still yearns for more. Like the canary in its cage. It hops about from stage to stage. And sings its native song and air. Then yearns for home more bright and fair. And so this restless soul of mine Don't seem to fit to this cold clime But hopes some better land to find More suited to this restless mind. Something more solid, more secure Than this world gives, something more pure- More lasting than those restless waves Ot pomp and show and dead men's graves. But He who formed this busy brain, And made this world of toil and pain, And gave to me this mind and will Knows all the rest, let's trust His skill. More life, more hope, more faith to scan The hidden things laid by for man. Laid by till faith shall grow more strong And doubt be lost in joyful song. i 5n /Bcmorlam. B RIVE slowly o'er the bridge; step light, The old man went to sleep last night. Speak gently, softly, draw your breath, The old man sleeps the sleep of death. His lonely days and nights are past, He lies in perfect peace at last. Laid in a coffin, neatly dressed, So beautiful he lies at rest. At rest from all the toils and strife Of eighty years of this sad life, Of sin and sorrow, hope and fear, With few to pity, few to cheer. Then to the church across the way. Where oft he used to go and pray, They bore the coffin, laid it down. And then talked of the cross and crown. Where sorrow and death, and trial and care Are things unknown in that world so fair, And they sang that song, the " one by one " Where crowns shine bright as the noonday sun. As they sang that song with bated breath, Which told of his life and of his death, You'd think you saw in that mansion so fair The old man sitting with his silver hair. ill 22 IN MEMORIAM. n r The coffin then they slowly bore Unto the hearse, then shut the door, And many a silent tear then fell jm eyes that sighed a last farewell. X rui The horses seemed to bow their head As they dre-.v their load, the honoured dead, Along the sad and lonely way, III the mid-day sun that July day. They halted on their lonely way Where in another coffin lay A corpse both still and pale and cold. His little grandchild, eight years old. And then the cortege moved again With double hearse within its train. And there the two new graves were seen Dug side by side upon the green. And thus we laid them in the sand, It seemed so beautiful, so grand. As side by side the coffins lay, He and the child had gone away. Where graves and coffins are unknown, And crosses make way for a crown, Where death and sorrow cannot come, A fairer world, and better home. Their lives while living here below Amongst the weeds of sin did grow, Now planted in a better land. The weeds we bury in the sand. '^^ m This but the soil from which they came Gone back to mix with earth again. The grain is reaped, the harvest o'er, The grain is garnered in the store. They are not dead, they cannot die, They've left us here, we know not why. We think their sorrow here on earth Gave access to that larger birth. Oh, blessed discipline, if it's true That sorrow only can renew These selfish hearts, that only pain Can heal the wound, we say Amen. Zbc 2)ags that are past. 071 goimj to see the old Mill after all the machinery had been removed. ^'M sitting in the lone old mill, •^ Its noise is hushed and all is still Save the sparrows chirping in the wall Their lonely, melancholy call. IMy busiest, happiest days were here, We worked and lived through hope and fear, Through ups and downs, some good, some ill ; Our faith was strong in this old mill. But now its usefulness is o'er, Its noise will never charm me more. I, like the mill am getting old, My energies are growing cold. 1 1 I Kl 1 1 '^ And when, like this old mill, I rest From anxious cares that so oppressed This whirHng brain and restless will, More restless than this restless mill. And there's the dwelling house close by, I hear the strangers' children's cry. It seems so sad, where many a year We lived in that old house so dear. And worked and hoped for better limes, A goldeti age, when golden mines Would yield such stores without its dross. Yield crov^-ns of honour without cross. I almost envy this old mill, Its quietness so calm and still. So restful, all its turmoil o'er, Wrapped in its silence evermore. Dear for its memories of the past ; But all things change, and here at last I sigh farewell and turn away In lonely solitude ; I pray To God, who ^ears the beating heart And sees the tear forbidden start, The loneliness no tongue can tell In that sad dreamy last farewell. 4 ^be (^ut of Wrah. ^UT of work and out of bread, Wife and children scarce half-fed. Grocer says he'll give no more Till I pay up the old score. Rent and taxes in arrears, Butchers, bakers, shedding tears. I've broken my promise, so they say, They'll give no more without the pay. I pledged my honour as a man When in the spring the work began. Every dollar I would pay, But now this is the last of May And hope is dead, and mental care Has sunk my soul in dark despair. I care not for myself, but mourn For those I have exposed to scorn And ridicule because they're poor, Although our labour filled the store Of those who now refuse to give A helping hand, a help to li\e. Why on this earth, where plenty fills The rich man's barns and merchant's tills Should willing hands be unemployed x\nd independent hopes destroyed ? n I i Xlhc (3atineau. M HEN we are depressed and sad, When our tempers get real bad. When our little earth-born cares Upset all our home affairs. Climb the mountain if you can, And higher mountains you will scan. Inhale the vigorating breeze That through nature's hills and trees Renews the life blood in the veins, And cures all the aches and pains, And thus we find the Gatineau Hills Are better than the doctor's pills. Solitary they appear. Fill our hearts with awe and fear As we climb their dizzy height, Wonder at the power and might. In these hills all may who look Find an interestmg book, Written when first this world began. Written without the aid of man. History of the mountains high Reaching almost to the sky, Telling of their life and birth Long before man trod this earth. i I gRe 1 HE SAVED HIS LIFE. n I Telling of their passions too When they first began to grow, When there was no hill or tree, When this world was molten sea. On that sea the wind then blew, Mountains high and higher grew, Such a tempest, oh how grand, God created sea and land. 1be Snvetf ibis Xife. /T\UR faithful dog whose name is Jack — He wore a coat of brown and black — A genteel dog, both good and kind, With bushy tail that flowed behind. Jack's life has been a chequered one ; Three times he just escaped the gun, When doomed by cruel man to die Though innocence shone in his eye. For Jack was then a roving blade, From house to house he visits made And beffged his bread trom door to door Or stole a herring from the store. And sometimes went out for a hunt, Or begged a bone from Butcher Blunt, They called him vagabond by name, But Jack was not so much to blame. i ■M: m tei I II 1 I,: li, 11^' I ! For dogs, like men, when they are poor, Are often driven from the door, And told to beg is lazy cant, Though, like poor Jack, they be in want. And then the dog-tax man came round ; '* Who owns," said he, ** that wretched hound ; " Go straight to Lett and get a check And hang it on the canine's neck." So Jack was once more doomed to die, Tied to a post he there did lie, Awaiting death, he wagged his tail In innocence, that could not fail To touch the sympathizing heart, And plead his cause and take his part, And sue for a reprieve and give The faithful dog a chance to live. And so it happened on that day That Jim came round as there he lay, Tied to the post with a tar rope, " Why, what is this? Is there no hope For poor old Jack ? Let's pay the debt ! " And down we sent to Pittman Lett And saved him from that fatal gun ; Took off that cord and let him run. So now he's watchman in the mill, He lets none in but whom he will ; Not even a dog-tax man could stroll Around for Jack has full control. I . 21 J'ricnOlc Vieit, The way Mr. Taylor introduced himself. *'^NY one here ? Hello Boss (where) are you in, I thought you were out when I heard no din," And sure enough 'twas my old friend Ben Taylor A-slamming the doors like a mad county jailor. "Come in Mr. Taylor, you jolly old blade, I knew it was you by the racket you made. You come like a storm on a dark summer's night, Blowing open the doors m a terrible plight. Take a chair you old fellow and keep yourself quiet. And tell us what brought you here this time of night : You haven't been here I don't know the time when, ' So tell us the news, if it's good, you know, Ben." " A wedding, you know, perhaps you heard it before, Is going to come off between Sid and Miss Storr, Well, I don't know the date, but on Thursday, they say At least I am sure it is some time in May. So you see that's the reason I make such a clatter, The wedding's the news ; yes that's what's the matter For my heart is glad, she's a regular star, And Sid, well he's solid— the Taylors all are." n 1:4 ■ir fill i ! ^be Xa6t 2>i'unft» A workman who wan a slave to drink. ^ ES, once more I am sober again And ready to do all I can, For I suppose I must work for my living, It's the hard luck of every poor man. Last pay I went straight to the house And threw down the cash, every cent, All but the four dollars, you know That you always keep for the rent. And I only just ask for ten cents And a can to go out for the beer, B'or I'm sure I haven't tasted a drop But once since that drunk at New Year. My wife then began to look cross And said I was going to get tight, So that was the way I broke out And was drinking the whole of that night. Yes, she's a nice little wife I admit, She's so clean, and she's clever and smart, She both makes and she mends all my clothes, Yes, she always attends to that part. • But a man expects more from his wife Than to work and to scrub all the day. For we promised a long time ago We'd agree m a general way. i But it seems we can never agree, And I don't know the reason just why, We've tried it so many times now It's no more any use for to try. Yes, I'd like if she weren't so clean, But more sympathetic and kind, Our home would be more like a heaven, If we were more of a mind. On ^int>inQ a Skeleton While excavathuj on the nite of the old atone church on Sparkn Street. a ND didbt thou live, and breathe, and talk, And in the streets of Bytown walk ? Or were there streets and houses here. Or nothing but the wild Chaudiere And forest trees and mountain ridge, No Sappers' or Suspension bridge ; No saw-logs then, or Chaudiere mill. No Parliament then on the Hill. No Council meetings in thy day, No water rates or tax to pay, No bailiff then to turn thee out, No peeler prowling on thy route ? Ml 'If ^ ' II 1 : m i c ■'Ill ii: 3511 Oh, couldst thou speak one word and say If thou wert happy in thy day, Or didst thou bear a heavy load Upon a rough and stormy road. Or wert thou looking on today, And hearing all we had to say About the house wherein thou dwelt And this old church in which thou knelt. Before thou left this earthly coil Now almost all gone back to soil, If thou wert looking on us then We could not see thee — we're but men ; But thou art more, and thou dost know Why sorrows once distressed that brow, And fear and shame and dark dismay E'er crossed thy path and stopped the way. Yes, thou who once lived in this skull ; This poky little house so dull, The windows glazed with darkened glass, Thy vision so obscure, alas — Yes, it must have been a sight to see Thee flit and wing thy way so free To mansions where all mystery Is solved. w Zbc JBurned m^l TTHE drizzling rain fell cold and chill Upon the ashes of the mill, And all our hopes were dark as night While gazing on the black'ning sight. Burned timbers, bricks and shafting lay In wild confusion everyway. And chaos like a mighty- foe Frowned on our sonow, loss and woe. No use for words, for words would fail, The black'ning prospect told the tale Of hopes destroyed, of courage gone. For desolation reigned whereon Our hopes were built, and O how sad The future seemed, for all we had Lay in that worthless heap of dross, A life of labour all a total loss. Yes, so it looked, and so we thought just then, But money's worth is not the price of men. If work be worship, then the way is plain. Our bounden duty is to work again. If work be worship, as some siy, Then work will surely pave the way To fairer homes, where hope won't tire But faith and courage and desire Will live and grow, and O how grand When character shall take its stand On higher hills and still aspire To eminence, above a fire. ! f Mi !.!: 34 QUYON. Our House at the, i^uyon Saw Mill. lb IGH on a hill with rugged walls, Some fifty feet above the falls Our house is built, and O, how grand, When at the open door I stand, And see the moon peep o'er the hill, Down on the mill-pond calm and still. How grand to stand upon the shore, And listen to the mellow roar The rapids make, all else so quiet, Oh ! what a calm, still, peaceful night, Free from the noise of city life, Free from the cares of business strife. A resting place on life's rough way, When tired by a weary day, How nice to sit out in the night And bask in such a balmy light. 'Kaddcd Cbute. My sleeping -room when building mill at Ra']'j^>u, Chute. CSb Y room is sixteen feet by six. Built of rough boards and not of bricks. One window looks down to the mill, The other up to the sandy hill. RAGGED iinTTR. n The door when open swings inside. And serves mv tag^^ed clothes to hide. Hung in the corner on the wall, Pants, vest and coat, and shirt and all. The stove is four by three feet high, And when it's filled with wood that's dry It gets so hot I almost melt. The walls are covered with brown felt. One bed, one sofa, and two chairj. You see my bedroom is downstairs, I rise at six, or just before, Dress, make my bed, and sweep the floor. Go breakfast out next door, and then Turn out to work like other men. Zbc insect ot a Da^. It ii said that upon the River Hypanis there exist little animals which live but one day. 'TTFIE insect of a day has lived To be an honored sage, Respected by his comrades For his enfeebled age. And now his life is ebbing fast, He calls his comrades round And tells them of his life that's past. Where wonders did abound. m ' il I I! 36 THE INSECT OF A DAY. He points them to the setting sun That's just begun to die, And tells them where it just begun To shine in that blue sky. He tells them he remembers well Where once it shone o'er head, And plenteous showers of blessing fell On generations dead. " But comrades, listen now," said he, " Our race is almost run, Our life on earth must cease to be, Our lives die with the sun." The younfi and gay held up their heads, And listened with alarm 1 And sighed to think their rosy beds Should ever come to harm. The sage's voice grew faint and slow. His limbs grew cold and chill, The sun was getting very low, Just going behind the hill. The sage's voice got fainter still ; " Our th'-ead 0* life is spun. We must obey our Maker's will, And go out with he sun." ^ strange JEveuts. TTHIS strangeness of events that so Obscures the way in which we go ; That seems to contradict our sense And weigh us down with dark suspense This dreary monotone of pain, This ever disappointing strain, That so obscures our eye of faith, And seems to drag us down to death. Is but the very life, the start, Here we begin to act our part. And here no effort shall be lost, Although at times we're tempest-tossed. Here all must count that's well bejiun. Whether drains be dug or factory run, We must be fitting for some sphere. Or else we never should be here. The old grey horse icanders away and dit:*. 'TTHEY smile and call me foolish, For they see my temper's tossed, As we listen to the cold dark splash At night. And Dick is lost. mm, i!i ii III For Dick weren't used to sleeping out. And would not count the cost Of such a soaking, cold, wet night I'm 'fraid poor Dick is lost I He may be stuck in some cold GWamp. Or else the Quyon crossed. I'm atraid that something's happened ; I'm sure poor Dick is lost, Or else he'd make his way back home. He'd come at any cost. Oh ! listen to the cold dark rain I I'm sure poor Dick is lost. Onv Coolt. {In the log shanty.) ® UR cook, he was a jolly blade, His name was Francis Wright. He baked the best bread e'er was made. So spongy, good and white. A pound of hops he got one day And set his sponge that night, Then down beside the batch he lay, Our cook did, Francis Wright. And thus he slept with open eyes, All through that cold, dark night, A-watching for the bread to rise. Our cook did, Francis Wright. «<• n Next morning as he donned his clothes His eyes shone with delight, To see how well his bread had rose, Our cook did, Francis Wright. And as he bakes our daily bread, And does it with his might, We think that He who sent him here, Will welcome Francis Wright. , tCbe Croolted va»t. z HE path of life is often hard And dilticult to find. Obstructions lie m every form. Perplexing to the mind. Through crooked, dismal bogs and swamps The road is made to wind, Beset by foxes, bears and wolves. The most ferocious kind. But why complain of crooked paths When fate has willed it so. It is the way the Master went, And why should we not go ? These crooked, rugged ways of earth. Where we by force are driven, Are glorious roads of priceless worth. The vestibule of heaven. ramf ti^ h*'. 40 A nirHTHERIA FUNERAL. i i i Thus if discipline be the way That leads to heavenly bliss, When led by such a crooked way That heaven we cannot miss. ! B Dipbtbcria jfuncral. Met on a londy road at night. 'TTHE night was dark and dreary, ^ On the road along the lake A worn-out man 'weary. Drove two corpsu :rom the wake. Stilled by death his children lay, As the cortege moved so slow. Then we thought we heard him say, " Lord, to Thee I humbly bow. Thou who gave the birth of life, Thou who takest it away From the troubles and the strife To a bright and endless day."* Then we thought his heart got light. And he was no more alone. In that dark and dreary night Light upon the coffins shone. ■« Away out in Thome. |[70U talk about your Model Farm And Manitoba corn, And quite forget how picturesque Our farms are here in Thome. You talk about your Rockies And look on us with scorn, Who live upon these rugged rocks Away out here in Thorne. I saw a farm the other day, The lunniest e'er was born, It hung upon a mountain's side, Near to ?. lake in Thorne. There was no place to build a barn To hold the Indian corn, That grew upon these great big rocks Away out here in Thorne. High on a rock the house was built, Scoops did the roof adorn ; A chimney built of cordwood stood Upon this house in Thorne. Cow-shed and root-house side by side, The barnyard did adorn ; Such is the picture ot this farm Away out here in Thorne, ' This was the dear old " home sweet home " Where Fierabend's sons were born, Who chose this humble, rugged spot, Among those hills in Thorne. Contented, happy with his lot. Smiles his bronzed face adorn. He thanks God for this humble spot Amongst those hills in Thorne. Dome. On visiting my old home in England. 'TTHE night is still, And sacred darkness falls Upon the barley stubble And the old st ^ne walls. Those old stone walls Each side this road I walk, When night comes on Begin to laugh and talk. And tell of other days Some fifty years ago, When I was only nine Or ten years old or so. I walk the old foot-path That crosses Father's farm, Where every nook and stile, and turn. Has some entrancing charm. I 1 HOME. 43 Then as each object came in view Some recollection gave, As I walked upon the very sod Of the old black horse's grave. And I saw the old hedge rows Where grew the roses wild, And my heart went back to the good old days, A happy, happy child. Then I went to see the Sunday school, Some fifty years gone by ; And saw the very place we sat, My brother Tom and I. But not a single face was there, At least that I could see. There might have been, I do not know, Some looking down on me. And I saw the light in the window As plain as plain could be, Where Mother sat in the old arm-chair. Knitting and waiting for me. Then I wondered when troubles were over And all our sorrow and pain, If we might come back to the old house And live there over again. .'!?'• .' I IP'"' ,.;rA i I f '. ! On JSoard Sbip. J© H, for a welcome sight of land ! Where I can have a spot to stand, If it is but a two foot space, Where I can bend my boots to lace. We four are put in this small pen, Our room just measures eight by ten. Too small by far to sleep and dress, Our clothes are all thrown in a mess. Beneath me lies on the under bed A soft young man that's college-bred, Who promenades with the girls at night, And lies in bed till broad daylight. A parson with a squeaky tongue — A fussy fellow with one lung — The most fault-finding of the three, Sleeps in the bed 'long-side of me. And in the lower berth one lies, Who snores when e'er he shuts his eyes ; His moans are like the troubled sea. Now, may I ask your sympathy ? 1 Zbe XvcnMnet Znblc, Cape. Toivn Tl\ID ever anybody see, Such a mixed community, Round a breakfast table sit, Trying to palm off their wit ? English, Irish, Dutch and Scot, Africander, and what not ; And such names you never heard, Round-tree, Green-hill and a Bird, Wiggett and Mc-Kindrie, Fraser, Hard-wood and Golds-worthy, Here we are together thrown, Funniest medley e'er was known. Blown across the deep blue sea, Working out the mystery Of some great and glorious plan, Hidden to the eyes of man. XLbc Xodt IRind. Scene in a boarding-house, Cape Colony, South Africa, 'TTHEY only called her Lizzie, They said that was her " nyme," She waited on the table. At lunch and dinner time. I 4« THE LOST RING. B ;1 I'l She was of dark complexion, I rather liked her face, But then the boarders seemed to think The girl was out of place. And one day while at dinner, One man got up and said The girl had acted rudely, By throwing down the bread. That u gave him such a shock. His nerves were weak and thin, And the girl she should be punished For committing such a sin. But I watched the tremour of her hand, And the twitching of her face, For coloured girls blush and get pale Like those of Saxon race. For the boarders all were talking Of the stolen diamond ring ; Said the guilty one should suffer For such a dreadful thing. That night we sat in the parlor, Talking the matter o'er, When every voice was hushed By a knock at the outer door. Then we all looked at each other, A pin you might hear fall, And someone said in a whisper " There's a policeman in the hall." li:^'" And we all looked very cunning, Then with one leap and bound *' The girl's the thief, the vixen. The diamond ring is found." And then the missiles flew like shot Sent from a cannon's mouth, Those fiery darts both fierce and hot, From north, west, east and south. For the girl was torn to tatters. And we all felt very proud ; I wonder what the Lord would say If He'd been in the crowd ? I think I hear His gentle voice In sympathetic tone, " Let him thai is without a sin Throw first the deadly stoned ' arable jflbountaitt. GapetowTiy South Africa. a ^T your request I'll do my best To tell you of the way I went. And how I felt in the ascent, The other day While on the way- I" i:\.Rif' 1 TABLE MOUNTAIN. No doubt you've often heard it said Fools go where atit;els fear to tread ; My heart beat last, The clouds flew past. As I gazed down from the giddy height, I saw the ships with their loads of freight ; And the young and old In the race for gold. And the town seemed busy and all alive, Buzzing about like bees in a hive ; On went the strife, A fight lor life. The young and strong, the stout and tall, The weak were pushed against the wall And tempest-toss'd, Their race seemed lost. Then it looked to me like a great big school, Where lessons must be learned by rule On ben'^hes hard And the stick to guard. And in the school the Master stands, Holding a prize with open hands, A great reward, An Honour-card. A pass-port to the gieat unknown, There to receive a golden crown, School-days passed. Heaven at last. September i8th, 1897. 5obannc0bur0, The Golden City of the Transvaal, South Africa. % WENT to see the city of gold ; Though young in years — ^just ten years old Had grown to an enormous size, For all the world, the worldly-wist, In the treasure rare Had come to share. For every nation had come to the fight, And every colour from black to white ; Both Jew and Gentile, rich and poor. Had come to dig for the precious ore, In the hard blue rock. Or in exchange stock. And some had risen and some had fell, And some had refused their luck to tell ; But all had sorrow less or more. And some a heavy burden bore, A sad lone fear — TAe world can't cheer. Then Sunday came, that welcome day. And I went to church and heard them pray. For the city so rich and yet so poor ; And they talked of a richer, happier shore, With faces bright And burdens light. f ' I 50 LOSS AND GAIN. %OB0 an^ (3ain» 3 F gain be loss and loss be gain, If sorrow, trouble, grief and pain Be diamonds glittering in the sun To light our way that's just begun From earth to heaven, then why despair When trials loaded down with care Lie heavy on the human breast, And when there seems no place for rest. It's grand to know this glorious cross Is but the law of gain and loss, The law that since the world began. Or rather since the birth of man. All down the ages, loss and gain Has marked the process of the train Of our ancestral parentage. Many have lived in every age Who reaped some gain in wealth and fame, Then furious fiery trials came And swept away the treasured gain Out of their sight, then, oh, how vain And empty then our whole life seemed, As one who through the night had dreamed Of heavenly bliss, then woke to find 'Twas all a myth, and troubled mind. But why this loss that stops advance ? This world is not a game of chance, But built on a substantial plan, A model training school for man. But some words seem so hard to spell, And what they mean we cannot tell, But then the Master knows quite well, Why not to Him. our troubles tell. He's always ready to explain Even the good of loss and gain ; All things are His, all things are ours, We only lack m faith ; He showers Down plenty, then for good retains, Sends loss to take away our gains That we may reach out and obtain A better, higher, richer gain. 'Kepli? to a^^>rc00 presented bn Brnplosece, witb SccompatiBinfl (5olD XOatcb. 'Jirr! ORDS fail entirely to express My thanks to you for this address, So take the action for the word ; I bow ; to speak would be absurd. Well I remember in past years You shared my cares and hopes and fears. When friends were few, and I in need, You often proved a friend indeed. L IP \mm :,*. ' rU 111 ! 11 r ■■M^ I 'i' tii When fortune frowned upon our will, And fire disastrous burned our mill, Your sympathy expanded then And kindness made us better men. Farewell. May we forever be. In bonds of closest sympathy, Let us each other's burdens bear Until we reach that higher sphere. April, 1898. Co ms ^cac ol& jFricnOs at •RasQcD Cbute. I /nVY dear old friends at Quyon Mill, My eyes with tears begin to fill. While gazing on this fine " dudheen," A present fit for England's Queen. I often think of days gone by. We worked together, you and I, Sharing each other's gain or loss When things got tangled up ; and cross. Our friendship still remains the same, Your old friend knows your every name, George Keeler, first upon the roll, John Curly, with his long pike-pole. ( John Howard holds the helm tight, The boards fly off to left and right ; Jack Keeler edges pretty fair, Tom Curly gets them, when he's there. Ned Keeler butts them at both ends And Michael to the pile attends, Neil Doherty attends the " dogs," John Salmon helps to roll the lo^s. Jim Palmer keeps the platform clear With Mr. Trick his engineer ; Dorion to the saws attends, Grinds files, and hammers out the bends. While Hanaberry with a will Draws all the edgmgs from the mill, As Tunny hitches up olr* " Bay" And draws the slabs and shorts away. Our shingle-maker, Burman, Fred, Hardly stops lo go to bed, Late and early, hard and tight, From early morn till dark at night. Horner never seems to tire Shovelling sawdust in the fire ; Our engineer whose name is Will, Drives the big wheel that runs the mill. ' liir M I' M 1 1' eMm I 54 TO FRIENDS AT RAGGED CHUTE. My dear old friends at Quyon Mill, My eyes with tears begin to fill, While gazing on his fine " dudheen,' A present fit for England's Queen. Ottawa, May 26th, 1898. i i •' J HOME BALLADS BY R. THACKRAY. m tl!f INFINITY. 1 5n(liUtB. ^H what a world, this world of ours ! Its ocean depths, its mountain towers ; Its sorrowing millions breathe its breath, And countless billions sleep its death. Life, death, in sea and land abound ; The world's become a burying-ground. And thus we mix with earth again When after joy and grief and pain The life, the soul, the spirit flies ; All we can see of life then dies ; And what we cannot see must be A living thing, or how could we At lightning speed, nay, quicker far. Our thoughts reach the remotest star And grope to find some space beyond Where we could go at one grand bound Our bodies die, they drop from sight ; Our souls, they must be infinite. Nov. 7th, 1898. ;iii 1 1 'I'' h :■» I''"; r, I -m w ¥■ ' Si! I Sunset in tbe 't)ar\^e0t jflelO. 5 LIKE those dear old corn-fields With their red ripe bearded grain, To wander through the stubble Brings back new life again. I like these old by-country roads At even time to roam And watch them carting in the grain And think of harvest home. I live my young days over agam, Though fifty years have passed, The happiest days I ever spent Then life seemed made to last. I like to hear the woodcock coo Their solemn, mellow lay, And watch the rabbits skip about And in the clover play. It brings me back to long past years When life seemed real and true. When every sound at twilight Was beautiful and new. It lifts me from this shadowy world Of lonely care and strife, And I see beyond the sunset Another, happier life. Brearey, Aug. 30th, 1898. IRELAND. I ^relanO. - ; On a moonlight ni^ht. 0Hi Ireland, gem of the British Isles, Where hearts roll out like Irish miles That wind around the mountain side And down the hill to meet the tide That watts the stranger to your shore. Who finds an ever open door From where flows sympathy so grand To all who on your shores land. Your neat thatched houses, white and clean, Your fields of ever-living green Where donkeys, sheep and cattle roam Around the good old home, sweet home. And on the mountain's far expanse On moonlight nights the fairies dance And bogies from the bogs go there, And lads and lassies from the fair Meet there to grace the mountain scene And pluck the shamrocks from the green And tell their simple tales of love, Heard only by the stars above. Vow to be constant without straint, Their love so pure and without taint So stirred their hearts just like some leaven As if an angel came from heaven \ ?ffll m\ ROLLING ON. And joined the glorious happy scene Out on that mountain side so green^ And fairies wept with pure dehght Oh ! Ireland on a moonlight night. Ottawa, January 3rd, 1899. 'Rolling On, TTHE robin's chirp has just begun, The old world's rolling to the sun With all its sorrowing load of sin, Its clash of arms and cannons' din. And broken hearts by sorrow torn. Too full to weep, and too forlorn To pray for help, with hope all gone. And still the old world's rolling on Showing its doings to the sun. Its battles lost and victories won, Its hopes and cares, its fears and strife. With all the sorrows of this life. Oh, what a tale the sun could tell Of tragedies that have befel ; Larger than earth would be the scroll Since this old world began to rolL Cbc CTaeh of life. fiS it so, then, i? it true That all we think and say and do Is working out a jilorious plan Designed by God for love of man ? That whether we succeed or fail In working out in nice detail The task of life, all will be gain This glorious prize of work and pain With all its toil, and care, and woe, Its best-loved friends and hated foe All total up the one grand whole And make for one eternal goal. The consummation of God's plan The heaven of sin-born, sorrowing man. Cbc <5rave ll?ar&. ^ SAT in the grave yard a'one, ^ And thought of the days that were past, As I gazed on the marble and stone, The last tribute of friends— yes, the last. And some I had known in this life Whose memory forces a tear, . I fi il'p THE WRF.CK OF THF MOHFCAN SUIT. r- n'. ; 'i Who had shared in my burdens and strife, So faithful, so true and sincere. But the iron gates of still death Have closed and iefi me outside, And I hear not a sigh nor a breath From the lips of those who have died, Whose day of discipline is o'er, Who have launched on a much larger sphere Than ever they thought of before To a land without sorrow or fear. I if ..;v]! I Zbc Xiaccch of tbc /HSobecjan Sblp, IWovcmbcc, IS99. 7THE Mohegan ship struck ibe Cornish rock With a crash that cannot be told By the hundred and fifiy who felt the shock And the sea rushed i;Uo the hold. And a cry went up for help that night To save from a watery grave A cry of despair to the God of might, The God who olonecan save. •* Lower the boats " ca iie a shout from the bridge, For the ship was sinking fast. ♦' Lower the boats, " cried the sailors true, For they stood at their posts t(» the hist. t : Then a sound went up as the ship went down To the God who always saves, And one hundred lives were broken On the North Atlantic waves. Not lest, but left the human house. They left their house that night And moved into a larger one More grand, and infinite. ; ipast aiiD ^Future. E ND now the time has come at last When I must face the wintry blast And home ; that strikes a thought so deep Into the heart that cannot weep. No place on earth so cold and chill No vacuum half so hard to fill As home, that's empty and bereft. When nothing but the name is left. It's said when folks on pleasure roam The happiest part is coming home. Alas, my hopes of home are dead, And sentimetits I almost dread. My morning and my noon arc past. My evening sun is overcast With clouds that flit acrc-ss my sky, As weary days and weeks go by. >!«:. ISAM THE HIDDKN FUTURE. ! Home ? no, I cannot call it home. It's homelier far for me to roam And listen to the tumult loud Of busy men and bustling crowd Than live where home just used to be Where everything I used to see Revives the hopes of years gone by, That live a little and then die. But memory lives, that vital spark Lives all day long, then after dark. Exists through life, on to the last, And links the future with the past. Dec. ist, 1898. Cbc lbfO&en 3f uture. ^UR gains are balanced by our loss. And sorrow cancels all our joy. The good we prize turns into dross. And pleasures live but to annoy. We live and flourish for a day. We grow, then draw one fleeting breath ; Our life is checkered ; then decay Sets in ; and all that's mortal dies in death. 1 m Toss'd between two worlds about, The finite and the infinite The finite full of dark and doubt, The infinite eternal light. B jt now and then a flash of light Comes in our dismal groping on L ke lightning in a stormy night Lights up the landscape and is gone. Yes gone ; hut still that flash of light Has shown to us a glorious way Revealed to us the infinite That turns our darkness into day. Yes, day eternal and sublime That penetrates these fogs that be And radiates the mists of time That hide the great eternity. ^biijgg xac See on tbe Street. X AST night when on the street at dark I heard a half drunk man remark " I know hira well, and he knows me ; I'll take him home where he should be." A little crowd had gathered round, A drunken man lay on the ground, A big policeman six feet high Was looking on with anxious eye. ■■ ! li l'iV'l"1 ■v''ii!iii im. ;::; ir:,:- iJII i 10 BREEZE HILL. " Who'll get the prize," my thoughts thus ran, *' The bobby or the half-drunk man ? " The drunkard's friend then acted wise And dragged along his heavy prize. Bravo ! my heart began to beat. Tve heard a sermon on the street ; The echo then came back to me " I'll take him home where he should be." A sermon ? Yes ; I almost fear More Christ-like than in church we hear. So short, pathetic, and so free " I'll lake him home where he should be." Theory and practice seldom fail To save our brother from the jail, And duty rests on you and me To take them hone where they should be. Liverpool, Nov. i8th, 189''. JSrecae Ibill. m HEN talking to a friend one day I heard a Breeze Hill member say, At Breeze Hill Church on Thursday night Some presbyters will there unite In council to deliberate The business of the church estate : ;n; And Breeze Hill will a lunch prepare, And a policeman will be there. " Why a policeman there ?" said I When to my quest he did reply, " For fear that something should be stole, It will be safer, on the whole." This news to me was something new, Straight from the pulpit and the pew It did'nt seem to me so meek As if they'd turned the other cheek. Or when the multitude was fed With five small fishes and some bread, While seated on that village green, Would a policeman grace the scene ? Or if the churches had indeed Faith large as a small mustard-seed They would the very act disdain To watch the fragments that remain. Alas ! it takes so very long To learn that rather suffer wrong Than at the court your brother sue The culprit might have just been you. It's time we Christians were more strong To suffer for our brother's wrong For we should be like one big clan At-one-ment with our brother-man. Liverpool, 6th Dec, 1898. 7— 1; I'h ' 1 f j ■ r ■! i;, i ' j r ■ ' ' '' i M 1 J:5V 1 i h\ i'\. ■ m ■■'0 ■■'-f< («"; >',■< »>*ll 12 THE MONTHLY FAIR. naMH^ra* ^bc^bontblsiFair. A scene in Ireland. TTHERE were horses and donkeys and mules and sheep, And loads of pigs all laid in a heap, And boys and girls for hire were there At Ballagawly monthly tair. There were carts and jaunting-cars for sale And Irish whiskey and barrels of ale. There were wheels of fortune and pitch and toss, And games of chance, of profit and loss, There were ringing of bells and auction sales, And cows and horses with short bob-tails, There were crowding and shouting and squealing of pigs And a fiddler rasping off Irish jigs. There were slapping of hands, and buying and selling, And singing and shouting and laughing and yelling And numerous other games were there, At Ballagawly monthly fair. Ballagawly, Ireland, Nov., 1898. Zbc IRaDfcal Clock. '^HE old clock stood in the corner, Close to the pantry door. The clock reached to the ceiling, And right down to the floor It went all right in the day-time But at night it took a start, And we set it in the morning By Edwin Todd's milk cart. The milkcart went like clockwork On its daily round all day ; The clock went like a rnilk-cart When it did not run away. But the clock had run for ages Through many a life long span, And measured out some human lives Before the cart began. All honour to the old timepiece Close to the pantry door, That reached up to the ceiling Down to the old flag floor ^^ "S i I'; I H FAREWELL TO QUYON MILL. jfarewcll to Qugon flblU. m Y ovvn old Quyon, now farewell ! One last long look and all is o'er, How much I love thee none can tell Thy winding stream and rugged shore. Farewell ye vapour hills of mist, Ye trees of dark and yellow green ; Ye crows and robins, you'll be missed, My comrades in past years you've been. And this old mill is part of me, My plaything in the years gone by, But time has parted me and thee. And time alone can answer why. I sometimes think how dear 'twould be When sin and sorrow lose their stain This dear old Ragged Chute to see And live together here again. Ragged Chute, April, 1898. ASiDntdbt anO Aornino* f ROM where and whence, and why This deep, dark pit of shame, So sad and deep the dye. So black we dare not name. Is it God why rules this world And gave this heritage Of dark, bad thoughts and deeds too black To write historic page ? The good man suffers for his good, His hopes go to decay, The speculating, world-wise Bloom like the flowers of May. But then the flowers of May will fade, Their leaves will blow away And perish in the evening shade When they have had their day. But we shall see more clearly Through the dim, dark space of time, And these sad, bad distempers Will then fall into line. And the spell will then be broken, Then we shall know and see The great unknown, unspoken, God's glorious myrtery. And then the light will shine more clear On the darkest spots we've trod Illumined by the glorious light Held by the band of God. J m Then we shall know the reason why How calm the face in death, As if the dawn had opened And life commenced in death. Ottawn, July 31, 1898, Ebe Brms* W TlTri HEN going to church the other day We met the army on the way Marching their own peculiar way To Heaven ; by flag and drum display. They numbered nine, both rank and file. Some persons by inclined to smile. Just then the big drum loud and long Boomed out the signal for a song. The echo warbled up on high, The sun shone through the cloudy sky And shed its warm and welcome ray Though many million miles away. Down on the motley band so small Yes, God's great sun shines down on all And shines as welcome and complete On army corps out en the street THE EASTER SPARROW. 17 As on the biggest church on earth ; All are to him of equal worth Who give their lives into His care, The honest poor or millionaire Who welcome all into their ranks The outcast and the homeless cranks, The out-of-works who hide from sight You shelter from the black, cold night. And then with drum and tambourine You call them in, the poor and mean, From the hard world, so cold and chill, So rough the road, so much up hill ; So straight the right, so wide the wrong, So many weak, so few are strong. Oh, sympathy ! how long, how long, Shine out, shine out ; be strong, be strong. i Cbe Easter Sparrow. 'TTHE sparrow on the stoop outside Sings his song of Eastcr-tide, Hops about in anxious glee, Happy as a bird can be. Dreadful hardships he has seen, Cold and long the winter's been ; Many a night has been his lot To creep into the chimney-pot rS i; ■! THE EASTER SPARROW. r m (hi. lit 'And so escape the bitter cold And pain of death that can't be told. Next morning early he's awake With dreadful empty stomach-ache. Then out into the cold he flies And on the stoop he sits and eyes And waits perchance for some stray crumbs Then down he shies amongst his chums. And so the nights and days pass by ; At last the sunny days draw nigh. Once more he sits upon the stoop And chirps a song more full of hope. Next day he brings along a wife, Declares he'll lead a better life ; And vows he never more will roam But spend his days and nights at home. And thus he chuckles to his bride Who seemed to take a moral pride In this mighty reformation Of the moral bird creation. Merrily they chirp together In the Easter sunny weather, Happy as the day is long Constant in their love and song. Learn a lesson from the sparrow, Don't be selfish, ..^ean and narrow, Share your sunshine and your pleasure ; Sympathy is golden treasure. Cbe (Tramp. ^OR what, for why, from whence came f, Into this world to h've and die. Mmus of friends, or wealth I roam In this wide world without a home. The sympathy for which I yearn, Is met with words and looks so stern That sends a shudder through my frame, And brands me Vagabond, by name. I walk along the dusty road, Weary of my despondent load, From last night's dew, my clothes are damp, Girls going to school call at me, tramp. Hunger my bosom friend indeed, My daily chum always in need, Suggests a real momentous want And chances of a meal are scant. I cannot beg, I will not steal, Oh for some job to earn a meah Necessity provides at last. I get a job and break my fast. Then night comes on with fearful dread, And heavy clouds like sheets of lead Lower down around my fearful head. I'm minus supper and a bed. hi m rf IS M'i- 'I. J'is!. 20 THE TRAMP. I earned by sawing wood last night My supper and a legal right To rest up in a loft of hay, And sleep o'ercame that dreadful day. Homesick next morn before tVas day, I crawled out from bed of hay, And started on the road once more, With aching back and feet all sore. But, now a change has come at last, The curtain falls and hides the past, A little rest, a change of scene, And morning breaks in living dream. I am the vagabond no more, I stand firm on this solid shore. God's schoolhouse since this world began. And I'm a god-created mm. I got a constant job last night. And now I claim the moral right To work nine hours in a day And draw my honest, legal pay. Farewell ye dusty roads, farewell. A dismal story you can tell Of aching hack and feet so sore, I begged for work from doo • to door. Farewell ye farmers' lofts of hay Where many nights I crept and lay. thp: tramp. 21 W5£*-*«fT|l?< And welcomed darkness with a smile That hid my misery for awhile. And now with spirits all aglow, J'm on my way to work you know. To earn one's living what a charm. My dinner tucked beneath my arm. This world's a world of change and chance. It's facts are strangei than romance, At morn, your spirits touch the :;ky. At night your'e quite content to die. And so it was today with me, Perfect as far as I could see Alas ! before the clock struck nine, My arms and shoulders and my s|)ine Were just one solid mass of pain, Creaking like an old freight train VVtiosecars fir years had been laid by And unused axles had run dry. So every muscle, every bone From sheer exhaustion, (loading stone) Was just one mass of ache and pain A real collapse from nervous strain And then the boss, to make things worse Directs at me an awful curse, And so the ebb and tide of life. The ups and downs, the joy and si rife. 1 ■ .f w |i^v■; 1 . To some extent the problem solves, This whirling swirling, and resolves, That life and pain and loss and gain, Those heartaches, and this dreadtul strain Are working out a glorious plan, The character, the soul of man. I!!i: