But found his horse all on a sweat;
Which made him in a deadly fret.

His daughter he said nothing to,

Nor none else (though full well they knew
That he was dead a month before),
For fear of grieving her full sore.

Her father to the father went
Of the deceased, with full intent
To tell him what his daughter said;
So both came back unto this maid.

They asked her, and she still did say
"T was he that then brought her away;
Which when they heard they were amazed,
And on each other strangely gazed.

A handkerchief she said she tied
About his head, and that they tried;
The sexton they did speak unto,
That he the grave would then undo.

Affrighted then they did behold
His body turning into mould,

And though he had a month been dead,
This handkerchief was about his head.

This thing unto her then they told,
And the whole truth they did unfold;
She was thereat so terrified

And grievéd, that she quickly died.

Part not true love, you rich men, then;
But, if they be right honest men

Your daughters love, give them their way,
For force oft breeds their lives' decay.

Anonymous.

0,

Surrey.

THE GREEN HILLS OF SURREY.

AN EMIGRANT SONG.

FROM Box Hill and Leith Hill the prospects are
fair,

You look o'er the sweet vales of green Surrey there,
And than Surrey's dear green vales you never saw lie
Or sweeter or greener, beneath the blue sky;
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

O, Farnham, green Farnham, what hop-grounds are there
That with Farnham's fair hop-grounds can ever compare!
And what pleasure it were once again but to lie
On Guildford's green hillsides beneath the blue sky!
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

O, Dorking is pleasant, and Dorking is green,
And sweet are the woods and the walks of Deepdene,
But for Dorking's sweet meadows in vain I must sigh,

And Deepdene's green woods will no more meet my eye; But the green woods of Surrey, the sweet woods of Surrey,

The dear woods of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

O, Kent has fair orchards; no pleasanter show
Than her apple-trees blooming in April, I know,
Save the orchards round Reigate, sweet Reigate, that lie
With their red and white blossoms so fair 'neath the sky.
O, the green fields of Surrey, the sweet fields of Surrey,
The dear fields of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

O Surrey, green Surrey, that I had been born

To a farm 'mongst your fields, with its hops and its corn, That I'd not been forced far, my fortune to try, Across the wide sea, 'neath a far foreign sky!

O, the green vales of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey, The dear vales of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

Minnesota's green prairies have plenty for all,
And comfort and wealth here my own I can call,
Yet often and often my thoughts, with a sigh,
Far to Surrey's green hills, o'er the wide sea will fly;
O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

But sighing avails not, and wishing is vain,
And the home of my childhood I'll ne'er see again;
The acres my labors made mine here, I'll try

To make dear to my heart, as they're fair to my eye;
But the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

'Neath the park limes in Betchworth, 't is there I would

stroll;

O, to walk but once more by the clear winding Mole! But no more shall I hear the soft breeze rustle by Through those lime-tops, no more by the Mole I shall lie; But the clear streams of Surrey, the sweet streams of Surrey,

The dear streams of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

By the gray ivied church, where my father is laid, Where my mother lies with him, my grave should be

made,

But, far from them, my bones, when my time comes, must lie

'Neath the rain and the snow of a strange foreign sky; O, the green hills of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey, The dear fields of Surrey, I'll love till I die.

William C. Bennett.

Sussex.

WHY ARE THEY SHUT?

THE following stanzas were composed while the author was sitting outside a country church, in Sussex, much regretting that, as it was weekday, he could not gain admittance to the sacred edifice.

WHY

HY are our churches shut with jealous care, Bolted and barred against our bosom's yearning, Save for the few short hours of sabbath prayer, With the bell's tolling statedly returning?

T

Why are they shut?

If with diurnal drudgeries o'erwrought,
Or sick of dissipation's dull vagaries,

We wish to snatch one little space for thought,
Or holy respite in our sanctuaries,

Why are they shut?

What! shall the church, the house of prayer, no more Give tacit notice from its fastened portals,

That for six days 't is useless to adore,

Since God will hold no communings with mortals?
Why are they shut?

Are there no sinners in the churchless week,
Who wish to sanctify a vowed repentance?
Are there no hearts bereft which fain would seek
The only balm for Death's unpitying sentence?
Why are they shut?

Are there no poor, no wronged, no heirs of grief,
No sick, who, when their strength or courage falters,
Long for a moment's respite or relief,

By kneeling at the God of mercy's altars?

Why are they shut?

Are there no wicked, whom, if tempted in,
Some qualm of conscience or devout suggestion
Might suddenly redeem from future sin?

O, if there be, how solemn is the question,

Why are they shut?

In foreign climes mechanics leave their tasks
To breathe a passing prayer in their cathedrals: