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"Listen, boy, the tide runs fast
Where the green iele lay in the years loag pasto
There once a abbet the moon shone through,
And its iron frames the high winds bler-
There the crimes of the sea received their due.

"Old Niz was a captain, bard and bold,
And he reaped the sea and gathered gold;
He gathered gold, but one windy night
They found him dead 'neath the guowale light,
And his mate stood near him, dumb and white.

“ And his mate they seized a young sailor heAnd charged him with murder upon the sea. And they brought him here where the island lay, Where the gibbet rose o'er the windy bay; "Twas more than a hundred years to-day.”

"O Pilot! Pilot! how dark it grows!

Hark ye, hark ye! (Cling, clang, cling!)
Across the bay the fog wind blows.

(Cling!)
The beacons turn in the fog clouds drear,
And my head is dulled with nameless fear
They did not hang that sailor here?
Hark ye, hark ye!”

(Cling-clang-cling !)

“Here lay the ship, and the island there,
And the sun on the summer oaks shone fair,
And they took him there 'mid the chains to die,
And he gazed on the green shores far and nigh,
Then turned his face to the open sky,

“And he said, 'Great Heaven, receive my prayer;
The shores are green and the isle is fair;
To my guiltless life my witness be;
Let the green isle die 'mid the sobbing sea,
And the sailors see it and pity me.

“. In her old thatched cottage my mother will spin, And dream of her boy on the coast of Lynn, Or watch from her door 'neath the linden tree;

Let the island beneath sink into the sea.

“Let it waste, let it waste in the moaning waves,
With its withered oaks and its pirates' graves,
Till it lie on the waters black and bare,
The ghost of an isle 'mid the islands fair,
Where bell shall toll and beacons glare!'

“He died, and the island shrank each year,
The green trees withered, the grass grew sere,
And the rock itself turned black and bare
And lurid beacons rose in air,
And the bell-buoy rings forever there.

“The bell-buoy rings in the moaning sea,
And it now strikes one, and it now strikes three!”

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

DER COMING MAN.

T VANT some invormashun, shust so quickly vot 1 I can, How I shall pring mine Yawcob oup to been der

coming man, For efery day id seem to me de brosbect look der

harder To make dot coming man imbrove upon dot going

fadder. 'Tvas beddher he yas more like me, a Deutcher blain

und rude, As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown out to been

a dude.

I don'd oxsh bect dot poy off mine a Vashington to

be, Und schop mit hadchets all aroundt ubon mine abble

dree So he can let der coundtry know he schmardter vas as

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Und got scheap adverdising dot he don't could dell a

lie: Mine Yawcob lets der drees alone undil der fruit dhey

bear, Und dhen dot feller he looks oudt und gets der lion's

share.

Some say 'tvas beddher dot you teach der young ideas

to shoot; Vell, I dink diş aboudt id : dot advice id vas no goot! Dot poy vonce dook hees broder oudt und dhey blay

Villiam Tell,

Budt Yawcob vas no shooter-he don't do id pooty

vell; Dot arrow don't go droo de core, budt id vent pooty

nearShust near enough to miss id und go droo hees broder's

ear.

He dravels mit hees buysickle in efery kind off vedder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes he

dakes a “header:” I don't know oxactly vot dat vas, budt dot poy he only

grumble, Und say I beddher try id vonce, dhen maybe I vould

"tumble.”

Dot Yawcob says dot ve vas boor: und he vants to be

richer, Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass pase

pall pitcher; He say he must be “shtriking oudt,” und try und

“make a hit,” Und tells me I vas “off mine pase” vhen I make fun

off it; Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe “oudt on der

schwim." He say dot von off Honlan's shells vas goot enough for

him.

Vot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dots brofligate and

vild; “How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der tooth

less child ?"

(I got dot deedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless

youth. He cuts his poor oldt fader more as a serpent's

tooth.) Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he must

obey, Und dot eef you should sphare der rod you sphoil him

righdt away.

Vell, Yawcob, he vas pooty goot-I guess I don'd gom

plain. I sometimes vish, mineself, dot I vas been a poy again. I lets him play mit pase-pall, und dake headers vhile he

can. I prings him up mit kindness, und I risk der coming

man. Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shitck, vhile Otto howls

und dances; I'll shpoil der rod und sphare der child, I dink, und dake der shances.

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

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