A step that hastens its sweet rest to win,
A world of care without,

A world of strife shut out,

A world of love shut in.

DORA GREenwell.

A GOOD WIFE.

It may be under palace roof,
Princely and wide ;

No pomp foregone, no pleasure lost,
No wish denied ;

But if beneath the diamond's flash

Sweet, kind eyes hide,

A pleasant place, a happy place,
Is our fireside.

It may be 'twixt four lowly walls,
No show, no pride;

Where sorrows ofttimes enter in,
But ne'er abide.

Yet if she sits beside the hearth,
Help, comfort, guide,

A blessed place, a heavenly place,
Is our fireside.

The Author of John Halifax.

BONNIE WEE WIFE.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share it.
The warstle and the care o't:
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,

And think my lot divine.

BURNS.

'WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU.'

O WILLIE ! is it you, dear, safe, safe at home?
They did not tell me true, dear, they said you would

not come.

I heard you at the gate, and it made my heart rejoice, For I knew that welcome footstep, and that dear familiar voice,

Making music on my ear in the lonely midnight gloom : O Willie! we have missed you,-welcome, welcome home !

We've longed to see you nightly, but this night of all, The fire was blazing brightly, and lights were in the

hall;

The little ones were up till 'twas ten o'clock or past, Then their eyes began to twinkle, and they are gone to sleep at last ;

But they listened for your voice till they thought you'd

never come:

O Willie ! we have missed you,-welcome, welcome home !

The days were sad without you, the nights were long

and drear,

My dreams have been about you,-oh! welcome Willie

dear.

Last night I wept and watched by the moonlight's cheerless ray,

Till I thought I heard your footstep, then I wiped my tears away;

But my heart grew sad again when I found you had

not come :

O Willie! we have missed you,-welcome, welcome home!

FATHER IS COMING.

THE clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,

And put the kettle on.

The wild night-wind is blowing cold,
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He's crossing o'er the wold apace,
He's stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold-not he,
His heart it is so warm.

For father's heart is stout and true,
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light :
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame !

Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane

The little window looks, and he

Can see it shining plain.

I've heard him say he loves to mark

The cheerful fire-light through the dark.

And we'll do all that father likes;

His wishes are so few.

Would they were more !-that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!

I'm sure it makes a happy day
When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs, and crows, and stares !
Heaven bless the merry child!

He's father's self in face and limb,
And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now ;
He's through the garden-gate.

Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait.

Shout, baby, shout, and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands!

MARY HOWITT.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to talk o' wark?
Mak' haste, set by your wheel!

Is this a time to talk o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there'e nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava;

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,

Put on the meikle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat ;
And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck, &c.

There are twa hens upon the bank,
They've fed this month and mair;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw ;

It's a' for love o❜ my gudeman,

For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck, &c.

C

O gie me down my bigonets,

My bishop-satin gown;

For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town;
My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's both leal and true.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech,

His breath's like caller air;

His very foot has music in't,
When he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought;
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind
That thrilled a' thro' my heart,
They're a' blawn by-I have him safe-
Till death we'll never part!

But what pits parting in my head ?—

It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content

I ha' nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought;
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

MICKLE.