Who made me feel and understand
The wonders of the sea and land,
And mark through all the Maker's hand?

My father.

Who climbed with me the mountain height,
And watched my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?

My father.

Who, from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gathered a subject for our talk,

To fill the long, delightful walk?

My father.

Not on a poor worm would he tread,
Nor strike the little insect dead;

Who taught at once my heart and head?

My father.

Who taught my early mind to know
The God from whom all blessings flow,
Creator of all things below?

My father.

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MY MOTHER.

Soon, and before the mercy-seat,

Spirits made perfect, we shall meet!
Then with what transports shall I greet

My father.

ANN TAYLOR.

MY MOTHER.

WHо fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed?
My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,

Who was it sang sweet lullaby,

And rocked me that I should not cry ?

My mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,

And wept for fear that I should die?

My mother.

MY MOTHER.

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?

My mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?

My mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?

And can I ever cease to be

My mother.

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who was so very kind to me?

My mother.

Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arms shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My mother.

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THE DOCTOR.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
'T will be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,

My mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with sorrow in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise

THE DOCTOR.

My mother.

ANN TAYLOR,

FROM WILLIE WINKIE.

O, Do not fear the doctor;
He comes to make you well,

To nurse you like a tender flower,

And pleasant tales to tell;

He brings the bloom back to your cheek,

The blithe blink to your eye,

An 't were not for the doctor,

My bonnie bairn might die.

O, who would fear the doctor,

His powder or his pill

You just a wee bit swallow take,

And there's an end of ill.

He'll make you sleep sound as a top,

THE HAND-POST.

And rise up like a fly,

An 't were not for the doctor,
My bonnie bairn might die.

A kind man is the doctor,

As

many poor folk ken;

He spares no toil by day or night
To ease them of their pain;

And O, he loves the bairnies well
And grieves whene'er they cry,—
An 't were not for the doctor,

My bonnie bairn might die.

ALEXANDER SMART.

THE HAND-POST.

THE night was dark, the sun was hid
Beneath the mountain gray:
And not a single star appeared,
To shoot a silver ray.

Across the path the owlet flew,

And screamed along the blast,

And onward with a quickened step,
Benighted Henry passed.

At intervals, amid the gloom

A flash of lightning played,

And showed the ruts with water filled,

And the black hedge's shade.

E

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