A little after you had parted with him,
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.'

'Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he To die of? dead!'

'Ah, dearest, if there be

A devil in man, there is an angel too,
And if he did that wrong you charge him with,
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again.
Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep
Without her "little birdie?" well then, sleep,
And I will sing you "birdie.""

Saying this,

The woman half turn'd round from him she loved,
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night
Her other, found (for it was close beside)

And half embraced the basket cradle-head
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd
The cradle, while she sang this baby song.

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

'She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep.
He also sleeps another sleep than ours.
He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear,
And I shall sleep the sounder!'

Then the man,

'His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : I do forgive him!'

'Thanks, my love,' she said,

'Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

A

I.

ND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like

a man.

And Willy's wife has written: she never was overwise,

Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.

VOL. II.

Z

II.

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to

save,

Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.

Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for

one.

Eh! but he would n't hear me

and Willy, you say,

is gone.

III.

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the

flock;

Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.

'Here's a leg for a baby of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound,

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

IV.

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue !

I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.

I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far

away.

V.

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;

But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

VI.

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my

dear,

All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world

of woe,

Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

VII.

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well

That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.

And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!

But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.

VIII.

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

IX.

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;

And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May.

Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself

clean.

Χ.

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt

the nightingale.

I.

All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm,

Willy, - he did n't see me, and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew

how;

Ah, there's no fool like the old one it makes me angry now.

XII.

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant;

Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and

went.

And I said, 'Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same,

You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good

name.'

XIII.

And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet

moonshine:

'Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.