The Library of Poetry and Song

O, should my gentle child be spared to man- But I know (for God hath told me this) that he

earthly love;

is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load
of flesh,

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of
know the angels fold him close beneath their
joy forever fresh.
glittering wings,

And

soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

know that we shall meet our babe (his mother

dear and I)

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from

every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can

never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is

certain peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls

from bliss may sever;

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be

ours forever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and
this world's misery,
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have
this grief and pain,·
him here again.

JOHN MOULTRIE

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

An Inverary correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the for

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching lowing narrative as to the origin of The Mitherless Bairn': I eyes must dim,

quote his own words. When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o'

God comfort us for all the love which we shall a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!," I hobled lose in him. up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'. "

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame tell, By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, For they reckon not by years and months where Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? he has gone to dwell. 'Tis the puir doited loonie, the mitherless

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant

smiles were given;

bairn!

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;

live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,

Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;

His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there. which he doth feel,

O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; Are numbered with the secret things which God But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,

will not reveal.

That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is
laid;

The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn !

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;

O, speak him na harshly, he trembles the But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

while,

He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more;

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn! Drew me to school along the public way,

WILLIAM THOM.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine,thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
fo quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, -not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,

A momentary dream that thou art she.

Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, -
'Tis now become a history little known
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced:
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours

My mother! when I learned that thou wast When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowdead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss -
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;

ers,

The violet, the pink, the jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while --
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and

smile,)

Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

here?

I would not trust my heart, the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no, what here we call or life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou—as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass
lost;

And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—
The son of parents passed into the skies.

And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run
His wonted course; yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again,
To have renewed the joys that once were inine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM COWPER.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday, The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD

TO MY INFANT SON.

THOυ happy, happy elf!

(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits, feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck !

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that rings the air, (The door the door! he'll tumble down the

stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents;- (Drat the boy! There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble! That's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break that mirror with that skipping

rope!)

With pure heart newly stamped from nature's "O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall

mint,

(Where did he learn that squint ?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on,

My elfin John !

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk!

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

THE LOST HEIR.

"O where, and O where

THOMAS HOOD.

Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.

ONE day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry

That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her East, she turned her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,

With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man,
Her right hand held a frying-pan,

The left a lump of beef.

At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female ranter moved to preach,
She gave her "sorrow words."

go stick stark staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way

A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.

You

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt-pies.

I wonder he left the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!

La bless you, good folks, mind your own concerns, and don't be making a mob in the street;

O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the priggs;

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;

And his trousers considering not very much patched, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair.

His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest;

But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim.

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him.

Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman, in want of an orphan,

Had borrowed the child to go a-begging with, | And
but I'd rather see him laid out in his
coffin !

Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys!
I'll break every bone of 'em I come near,
Go home - you're spilling the porter-go home
- Tommy Jones, go along home with
your beer.

This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan,

all along of following a monkey and an

He's

And

his nose is still a good un, though the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;

got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane stage. And then he has got such dear winning waysbut O, I never, never shall see him no more!

Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

organ:

O my Billy my head will turn right round
if he's got kiddynapped with them Ital-
ians,

They'll make him a plaster parish image boy,

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us Billy where are you, Billy? all, and, drat him! made a seize of our hog.

I'm as hoarse

as a crow, with screaming for ye, you
young sorrow!

And sha'n't have half a voice, no more I sha'n't,
for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.

O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally,

It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,

If I'm to see other folks' darlin's, and none And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for of mine, playing like angels in our a distracted Mother and Father about alley, Town.

And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when
I looks at the old three-legged chair
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and
there a'n't no Billy there!

I would run all the wide world over to find him,
if I only knowed where to run,

Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,

The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily,

Billy

where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they 'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.

Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,

And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot.

To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent O, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face.

hand at the Old Bailey.

For though I say it as ought n't, yet I will say,
you may search for miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more
pretty behaved, from one end to t'other
of St. Giles's.

And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but
only as a mother ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face,
only it has n't been washed for a week;
As for hair, though it 's red, it 's the most nicest
hair when I've time to just show it the
comb ;

I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides,

For he 's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.

I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him!

Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was— but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin!

as will only bring him safe and sound But let me get him home, with a good grip of home.

He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint,

though a little cast he's certainly got;

his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THOMAS HOOD

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