"What's your boy's name? good wife! And in what good ship sail'd he?" "My boy John ! He that went to sea What care I for the ship? sailor! My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have ask'd some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish, "How's my boy, my boy? And unless you let me know, Brass buttons or no, sailor! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton ! " "And why should I speak low, sailor! Why should I speak low? sailor!" "How's my boy? how's my boy? Be she afloat or be she aground, I say, how's my John? -"Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her." "How's my boy, my boy? What care I for the men? sailor! I'm not their mother. How's my boy, my boy? Tell me of him, and no other! How's my boy, my boy?" HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 1824-1872. THE BURIAL OF THE dane. Blue gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead : Muster all on the quarter! We must bury the dead. It is but a Danish sailor, Rugged of front and form,— A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm. His name and the strand he hail'd from We know, and there's nothing more : But perhaps his mother is waiting Still as he lay there dying, Reason drifting, a wreck, ""Tis my watch!" he would mutter,— "I must go upon deck!" Ay, on deck, by the foremast !— But watch and look-out are done : The Union-Jack laid o'er him, How quiet he lies in the sun! Slow the ponderous engine! Cradle our giant craft! Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer ; Let every foot be quiet, The soft trade-wind is lifting Our captain reads the service (A little spray on his cheeks), The grand old words of burial, And the trust a true heart seeks"We therefore commit his body To the deep!"—and as he speaks, Launch'd from the weather-railing A thousand summers and winters High o'er his canvas coffin : But, silence to doubt and dole ! Free the fetter'd engine! Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead : Every man to his duty! We have buried our dead. QU'IL MOURÛT! Not a sob, not a tear he spent But a moan, and a long lament Who might have lain, as Harold lay, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 1824 SONG. Rushes lean over the water, Shells lie on the shore, And thou, the blue Ocean's daughter, Sleep'st soft in the song of its roar. Clouds sail over the ocean, White gusts fleck its calm, But never its wildest motion White feet on the edge of the billow Like tangles of sea-weed streaming Thy fair hair fringes thy dreaming, MAJOR AND MINOR. A bird sang sweet and strong In the top of the highest tree : He sang "I pour out my soul in song But deep in the shady wood Another bird sang-" I pour My soul on the solemn solitude For the Springs that return no more." THOMAS D'ARCY MCGEE. THE PENITENT RAVEN. The Raven's house is built with reeds,— And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, And the Raven himself, telling his beads Telling his beads from night to morn,— |