A FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART.

I can not forget my jo;

I bid him be mine in sleep:

But battle and woe have changed him so,
There's nothing to do but weep.

My mother rebukes me yet,-
And I never was meek before:
His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,--
He'll trouble our home no more.

O, breaker of reeds that bend!
O, 'quencher of tow that smokes !
I'd rather descend to my sailor friend
Than prosper with lofty folks.

I'm lying beside the gowan,

My jo in the English bay;

I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,-
He call'd me his Bien-Aimée.

I'll hearken to all you quote,

Though I'd rather be dead and free :
The little he wrote in the sinking boat
Is Bible and charm to me.

SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL.
1824-1874.

A SLEEP SONG.

Sister Simplicitie!

Sing, sing a song to me,-
Sing me to sleep!

Some legend low and long,

Slow as the summer song
Of the dull Deep:

Some legend long and low,
Whose equal ebb and flow,

To and fro, creep

On the dim marge of grey,

'Tween the soul's night and day,
Washing "awake" away

Into "asleep":

Some legend low and long,
Never so weak or strong
As to let go

While it can hold this heart
Withouten sigh or smart,
Or as to hold this heart
When it sighs No:

Some long low-swaying song
As the sway'd shadow long
Sways to and fro

Where, through the crowing cocks,
And by the swinging clocks,

Some weary mother rocks

Some weary woe.

Sing up and down to me!

Like a dream-boat at sea,

So, and still so,

Float through the "then" and "when,"

Rising from when to then,

Sinking from then to when,
While the waves go!

Low and high, high and low,

Now and then, then and now,

Now, now,

And when the now is then and when the then is now, And when the low is high and when the high is low,

So! so!

HOW'S MY BOY?

Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my Boy, my Boy?"

"What's your boy's name? good wife! And in what good ship sail'd he ?”

"My boy John!

He that went to sea

What care I for the ship? sailor!

My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have ask'd some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish,

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy, my boy?

And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,-

Brass buttons or no, sailor!
Anchor and crown or no.

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton!"
-“Speak low, woman! speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor!
About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town:

Why should I speak low? sailor!" -"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy? how's my boy?
What care I for the ship? sailor!
I was never aboard her :

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her.

I say, how's my John?

66 Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy, my boy?

What care I for the men? sailor!

I'm not their mother.

How's my boy, my boy?

Tell me of him, and no other!

How's my boy, my boy?"

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

1824-1872.

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE.

Blue gulf all around us,

Blue sky overhead :

Muster all on the quarter!
We must bury the dead.

It is but a Danish sailor,

Rugged of front and form,-
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name and the strand he hail'd from

We know, and there's nothing more :

But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still as he lay there dying,

Reason drifting, a wreck,

"'Tis my watch! " he would mutter,— "I must go upon deck!

Ay, on deck, by the foremast!-
But watch and look-out are done :
The Union-Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine!
Stay the hurrying shaft!
Let the roll of ocean

Cradle our giant craft!
Gather around the grating,

Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen

To the holiest page of prayer;

Let every foot be quiet,
Every head be bare!

The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service

(A little spray on his cheeks), The grand old words of burial,

And the trust a true heart seeks"We therefore commit his body

To the deep!"—and as he speaks,

Launch'd from the weather-railing
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly shotted hammock
Plunges, away from the shark,
Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll