And laying this little flag next to his bosom,

That he might defend it, and guard it that night, Willie buttoned his coat up, and shouldered his musket, All ready to go with the boys in the fight.

But when he was going the last time to battle,

He gave me to keep till he came back once more
And now they are both lying folded together—
This flag and the gray coat our dear Willie wore;
And here in this casket's another sweet treasure

A soft shining tress of our soldier-boy's hair;
He smiled while I clipped it one day from his forehead,
And tied the bright curl with the blue ribbon here.

And by it another — all tangled and red

With the crimson that stained his fair cheek and his brow For the life-blood he gave to his country in battle,

Oh, see, it is over this little lock now!

I still have another But see, you are weeping;
Yet listen, the story will all be told soon:

One night, out on picket, while waiting for duty,

He carved, with a dull knife, this rough wooden spoon,

He was going to throw it away, when I told him
I'd keep it, and treasure it up too with care;

"T is but a relic; but, oh! you'll believe me,

No pearl from the ocean could be half so dear; And not all the wealth of the Indies could tempt me To part with one treasure, though I might be poor, And millions of money to-day could not purchase This old faded gray coat our soldier-boy wore.

The bells in the city were tolling to welcome

The boys that had gone with the "ordered away; And oh! there was weeping, for sadness and sorrow

Was filling the hearts of the people that day;
They were bearing them back - the brave that had fallen-
With only pine coffins to cover them o'er;

And many a sad heart I know is still weeping
Above the old gray coat some soldier-boy wore.

We laid them to rest near the homes they loved dearest,
And twined them green laurels above every sod;

We gave them to earth — the loved forms we had cherished –
Their spirits we gave to the bosom of God!

Now fold up these treasures, and put them away;
'Tis useless to sigh-it is vain to deplore;
For Willie's in heaven; why should we be weeping
Above the old gray coat our soldier-boy wore?

I would meet the conflict bravely,
I would battle in the strife,
And pray to Him who willeth
This stern duty of my life.
Oh! strengthen me, my Father;
Let me bow at thy command,
And labor in the world for good
With earnest heart and hand.

If I murmur when the burden
Grows too great for me to bear;
Should I waste one little moment
In a useless sigh or tear;
When I feel too keenly pressing
In my heart the bitter thorn,
Or waste regret on hope and joys
That are forever gone:

Oh! thou that pitiest human woe,
And human weakness too,

Grant me new strength and courage still
Bravely to dare and do;

To look around me in this world

Of sorrow and of care,

And feel for those who suffer too,
And shed the mourner's tear.

Life's labors nobly done at last
Will bring a rich reward,

And blessings crown the heart that seeks

To scatter good abroad:

Each has a holy mission here,

And happy is the one

Who at life's weary close can see

Its labor nobly done.

Then, Father! only let me bow
In meekness to thy will,

And teach me with unfaltering soul

For truth to battle still:

And when in Death my eye shall turn

Upon Life's setting sun,

Oh! let me fold my hands to rest

With all Life's labors done!

GIVE A KIND WORD TO THE ERRING.

Give a kind word to the erring

It may raise a fallen brother;
And the law of Heaven teaches

We should kindly treat each other.
Ah! the paths of vice are many;
And when tempted and when tried,
Then remember thou art mortal,
And thy feet may turn aside.

Give a kind word to the erring,
Who have trod the path of sin,
For the tempter, too, may woo thee,
And thy feet may turn therein.
All along life's rugged pathway
Stones are bruising weary feet:
Thistles spring among the flowers
Tares are growing with the wheat.

And the Master in his vineyard
Hath work for you to do,
For the harvest there is plenteous,
But the laborers they are few.
Tarry not-the day is waning,

And the night is coming on,
And the Master will reward you
For the work thy hand hath done.

If from out one bleeding bosom

You have plucked the bitter thorn;
If you've cheered the drooping spirit,
When its every hope was gone;

If you've stretched the hand in kindness
To lead erring, straying feet,
There's a rich reward awaits you —
And love's labor, too, is sweet.

If along life's rugged highway

You have raised a drooping flower;
If thy smile hath ever gladdened
For one heart a gloomy hour,—

It hath placed a star to glitter,

In the angel-crown above!
Ah! life's mission here is holy,

When we make it one of love.

Oh, remember, then, the erring!
Thou mayst lift the soul again,
And from some poor, bleeding bosom
Wipe away the guilty stain.
All the world is one broad vineyard,
Where there's work for each to do;
For the harvest there is plenteous,
But the laborers are few!

Work, then! for Life's sun is setting,
And the night of Death comes on,

And the Master, at his coming,

Will expect thy work well done.

THE SONG OF THE FACTORY GIRL.

"Oh! for one hour-just one short hour,
From the busy, noisy loom,

To breathe the breath of the summer air,
And the flowers' sweet perfume;

My brain throbs so- my heart is sick,

I am weary for want of rest,

And the ceaseless din in these factory walls

No quiet brings my breast.

"I long to ramble a little while

Out in the balmy air,

And rest on the green of some mossy bank,
Where a bright stream ripples near;

To bathe my brow in the cooling fount,
And soothe its fever-pain;

And under the calm of the fair blue sky
My heart would be light again.

'But I am poor, and I murmur not,
For mine is honest toil,

And, as I move by each busy loom,
I've no rich robes to soil!