"Listen, boy, the tide runs fast

Where the green isle lay in the years long past. There once a gibbet the moon shone through, And its iron frames the high winds blewThere the crimes of the sea received their due.

"Old Nix was a captain, hard and bold,
And he reaped the sea and gathered gold;
He gathered gold, but one windy night
They found him dead 'neath the gunwale 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;
O Heaven! just Heaven, my witness be,

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.

VANT some in vormashun, shust so quickly vot I can,

IVA

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 vas more like me, a Deutcher blain und rude,

As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown out to been a dude.

I don'd oxshbect 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

I,

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 dis 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

near

Shust 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 pasepall pitcher;

He say he must be "shtriking oudt," und try und "make a hit,"

Und tells me I vas

off it;

"off mine pase" vhen I make fun

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 dot's brofligate and

vild;

"How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der toothless 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 gomplain.

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.