Go forth, ye Pins, and bring home news
Ye Needles, in your cases muse!
And take me for your kind adviser,
And only think of growing wiser;
Then, when you meet again, no doubt,
Something you 'll have to talk about,
And need not get into a passion,
And quarrel in this vulgar fashion.
Less of yourselves you 'll think, and more
Of others, than you did before.
You 'll learn that, in their own right sphere,
All things with dignity appear,
And have, when in their proper place,
Peculiar use, intrinsic grace.”
Methought the polished Scissors blushed
To have said so much, - and all was hushed.

WE ARE SEVEN.

- A SIMPLE child, 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.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair and very fair,

Her beauty made me glad.

WE ARE SEVEN.

“ 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 churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them, with my mother."

“ You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye 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 churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“ You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive ;
If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five.”

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

The little maid replied, “ Twelve steps or more from my 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.

“ The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay
Till God released her from her pain,

And then she went away.

“ So in the churchyard she was laid;

And when the grass was dry, Together round the 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."

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

JOHN BARLEYCORN. – Burns.

THERE were three kings into the East,

Three kings, both great and high, · An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall, And Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,
His head well armed with pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale,
His bending joints and drooping head

Showed he began to fail.

His color sickened more and more,

He faded into age;
And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They 've ta’en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe,
And still, as signs of life appeared,

They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame

The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they have ta’en his very heart's blood,

And drunk it round and round; And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.