Old song, I sing you o'er again,

With welcome to your ancient state; Old dreams, now may you long remain To cheer us at the blazing grate.

THE SEVEN SISTERS;

Or, the Solitude of Binnorie.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald
All children of one mother:

I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;

The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right-
Of your fair household, father knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY.

JOHN G. SAXE.

Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth
Among our "fierce democracy"!
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers,
Not even a couple of rotten peers,-
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!

English and Irish, French and Spanish,
Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration!

So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation.

Depend upon it my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed, at the farther end,
By some plebeian vocation!

Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,

That plagued some worthy relation!

MARY ANN.

ARTHUR J. MUNBY.

She is right weary of her days,

Her long lone days, of dusty kneeling; And yet "The thoughts o' you," she says, "Has took away my tired feeling."

"For when I've done the room," she says, "And cleaned it all from floor to ceiling, A-leaning on my broom," she says, "I do have such a tired feeling!"

But he, the other laborer,

Has left behind his moorland shieling, And comes at last to comfort her,

Because he knows her "tired feeling."

"I know'd you was to come," she says, "For why? I see'd the swallows wheeling; And that's a sign to me, I says;

I soon shall lose m tired feeling.

"I'll ax my Misses' leave, I says,

I canna work; my heart wants healing:
it me, and smiles and says,

She gave
'Well, that'll cure your tired feeling.'