ST. MICHAEL'S CHAIR,

AND WHO SAT THERE.

Merrily merrily rung the bells,

The bells of St. Michael's tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife Arrived at the church-door.

Richard Penlake was a chearful man,

Chearful and frank and free,

But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife,
For a terrible shrew was she.

Richard Penlake a scolding would take
Till patience availed no longer,

Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take,
And shew her that he was the stronger.

Rebecca his wife had often wish'd
To sit in St. Michael's chair;

For she should be the mistress then
If she had once sat there.

It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick,
They thought he would have died;
Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life
As she knelt by his bed-side.

Now hear my prayer, St. Michael! and spare
My husband's life, quoth she,
And to thine altar we will go,
Six marks to give to thee.

Richard Penlake repeated the vow,
For woundily sick was he-
Save me St. Michael and we will go
Six marks to give to thee.

When Richard grew well Rebecca his wife

Teized him by night and by day:

O mine own dear! for you I fear,

If we the vow delay.

Merrily merrily rung the bells,

The bells of St. Michael's tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife Arrived at the church door.

Six marks they on the altar laid,
And Richard knelt in prayer :
She left him to pray and stole away
To sit in St. Michael's chair.

Up the tower Rebecca ran,
Round and round and round;
'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top
And look upon the ground.

A curse on the ringers for rocking
The tower! Rebecca cried,
As over the church battlements
She strode with a long stride.

A blessing on St. Michael's chair!
She said as she sat down :

nd.

Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought
That his good wife was dead :
Now shall we toll for her poor soul
The great church-bell? they said.

Toll at her burying, quoth Richard Penlake,
Toll at her burying, quoth he;

But don't disturb the ringers now
In compliment to me.

R. S. Y.

The MORNING MIST.

Look, WILLIAM, how the morning mists

Have covered all the scene,

Nor house nor hill canst thou behold,
Grey wood, or meadow green.

The distant spire across the vale
These floating vapours shroud,
Scarce are the neighbouring poplars seen,
Pale shadowed in the cloud.

But seest thou, William, where the mists-
Sweep o'er the southern sky,

The dim effulgence of the sun
That lights them as they fly?

Soon shall that glorious orb of day
In all his strength arise,
And roll along his azure way,

Thro' clear and cloudless skies.