AULD LANG SYNE.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

HOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,

SHO

And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne ;

We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans * fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,†

Frae morning sun till dine;

*Wild daisies.

† Brook.

But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne.

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne;

We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

THEY love the places where they wandered When they were young;

They love the books they 've often pondered, They love the tunes they've sung.

The easy-chair, so soft and dozy,
Is their delight;

The ample slippers, warm and cozy,
And the dear old bed at night.

CHORUS.

Near their hearth-stones, warm and cheery, Where, by night or day,

They're free to rest when they are weary,

There the old folks love to stay.

L. M. C.

OLD UNCLE TOMMY.

FROM THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER.

"Let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of highway-side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die."

T

WORDSWORTH.

HE morning after the storm was calm and beautiful; just one of those days. so dear to every lover of Nature; for every true worshipper of our allbountiful Mother is a poet at heart, though his lips may often fail to utter the rich experience of his soul. The air was full of fragrance and the songs of birds. Here and there a gentle breeze would shower down the drops of moisture from the trees, forming a mimic rain; every bush and shrub, and each separate blade of grass, glittered in the morning sunlight, as if hung with brightest jewels. The stillness was in harmony with the

day of rest, and only the most peaceful thoughts were suggested by this glorious calm, returning after the tempest.

pre

The late proprietor of the Leigh Manor had sented a small, though very perfect, chime of bells to Leighton Church; they had never been successfully played until now, when the ringers, having become more skilful, they for the first time pealed a regular chant; and right merrily did the sound go forth over the quiet plain.

To God the mighty Lord,

Your joyful songs repeat;
To Him your praise accord,
As good as He is great.

"Ah," said an old man, leaning on his staff, and gazing at the bells, "how I wish the Masther could a' heard ye! Well, p'r'aps he does hear the bonny bells a-praising God. God bless thee, dear Masther, and have thee forever in his holy keeping!" and raising his hat reverently from his head, the old man stood with the white hair streaming back upon his shoulders, leaving unshaded his upturned countenance, where were visible the traces of many a conflict and of many a hard-earned victory; the traces only, for time and living faith had smoothed the deeper marks. As in Nature this morning you saw there had been storm and fierce strife; but now all was at peace. The clear blue eye of the aged man shone with a brighter light than youth alone can give. It was the undying

light of immortality; for, old and poor and ignorant as he was, to worldly eyes, his soul had attained a noble stature; and as he stood there with uncovered head, in the June sunshine, there was a majesty about him which no mere earthly rank can impart. You saw before you a child of the Great Father; you felt that he communed in spirit with his God, as with a dear and loving parent; that the Most High was very nigh unto him. And yet this man dwelt amongst the paupers of a country almshouse, and men called him insane! But he was "harmless," they said; so he was allowed. to come and go about the neighborhood, as he pleased, and no one feared him.

The little children, as they passed to Sunday School this morning, stepped more lightly, lest they should disturb him; for he was a favorite with the "little people," as he called them.

When beyond his hearing, they whispered to one another, "I don't believe Uncle Tommy is crazy, do you? I never want to plague him; he's so kind."

"He is n't a mite like laughing Davy," said another; "for Davy is real mischievous sometimes, and Uncle Tommy is n't a bit; what do you s'pose folks call him crazy for?"

"I'm sure I don't know," whispered a third, "for he knows ever so much. I guess it's 'cause he seems as he does now; and nobody else ever does, do they? That's what folks laugh at.”