MY FRIENDS.

"My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day."

--_Southey_.

Some to and fro for converse flit And on their friends intrude, Or shun society and sit In cheerless solitude; But I can sit, when night descends, At home among a thousand friends.

The garish day is left behind, The scurry and the din; The hours of toil are out of mind, As if they had not been.

No thought of morrow that impends Comes in between me and my friends.

We reck not of the flight of time, To them a subject strange; They pa.s.s their days in a sublime Indifference to change: Theirs is the life that never ends; Immortal beings are my friends.

They toil not, neither do they spin; Yet none is meanly drest; And some are clad in costly skin, And some in silken vest; And everyone who sees commends The decent habits of my friends.

And some are short, and some are tall; Some portly, and some spare; Here is a group of pygmies small, A Tom Thumb family; there A Brobdingnagian row extends, The best-informed among my friends.

Wot one among them all is low, A fellow to be spurned; And none is ever rude, although Their backs are often turned.

No observation that offends Is dropped by any of my friends.

And some are steeped in cla.s.sic lore; Some brim with wisdom sage; And some can trace a far-off sh.o.r.e, Or paint a former age; And each his talent freely lends, For talented are all my friends.

Some tell of deeds and lives sublime And triumphs over foes; Some weave a spell of lofty rhyme, Some charm with stately prose; And here and there a mind unbends Familiarly among my friends.

In diction antiquated, quaint, Or with a modern sound, They speak their thoughts without restraint, Although they're mostly bound; And cease to speak when none attends, A valued feature of my friends.

Although they shun the thoughtless crowd, The frivolous disdain, Their t.i.tles have not made them proud, Nor all their pages vain; No common mortal less pretends, None can be opener than my friends.

They care not that they've all been cut, A number by myself, And often taken down, and put As often on the shelf; My estimation makes amends For such ill-treatment of my friends.

An ever-fresh, unfailing source Of thought and sympathy, What hours of goodly intercourse They have afforded me!

I cannot doubt that heaven still sends Us angels while I have my friends.

If he who sits at home in gloom, Or rushes here and there, Will put a bookshelf in his room And furnish it with care, He'll bless the evenings that he spends With such companions as my friends.

NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR THE IRISH.

It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land: There's nothing too good for the Irish.

O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command, Has scattered her charms with a prodigal hand From Skibbereen town to the Donegal strand; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And it's many a hero the Irish can claim: There's nothing too good for the Irish.

"Red Hugh" put his country's invaders to shame; Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame; As a nation the Irish have glory and fame; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the Irish are noted for piety, too: There's nothing too good for the Irish.

In the far-away time before Brian Boru, The faith by Saint Patrick was planted and grew, And the "Island of Saints" has had saints not a few: For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the best of all orators Irishmen are: There's nothing too good for the Irish.

The voice of Columba was heard from afar, Burke's eloquence rolled like a conquering car, And the name of O'Connell's a radiant star; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the Irishman always is witty, of course; There's nothing too good for the Irish.

And his wit is as genial and kind as its source; It never leaves anyone feeling the worse; He makes bulls, but a good Irish bull's a white horse; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

You are thinking, no doubt, to the race I belong: There's nothing too good for the Irish.

You think I am Irish, but that's where you're wrong; I am Scotch, but our love for the Irish is strong; We gave them a saint and we'll give them a song; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

AN ENGLISH TOAST.

The English soil!--'tis hallowed ground: Its restless children roam The world, but they have never found So dear a land as home; Their pa.s.sion for its hills and downs Nor s.p.a.ce nor time can spoil; A golden mist of memory crowns The good old English soil.

The English race!--its pluck and pith, Its power to stay and win,-- Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith, And Coeur de Lion's kin!

Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll, Who sat in kingly place!

Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all The good old English race!

The English speech!--the copious tongue, Terse, vivid, plastic, fit, Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung, Which gave us Holy Writ; Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write, Which Taylor used, to preach, And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night-- The good old English speech!

"St. George and Merrie England!"--still The stirring phrase imparts Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill Through more than English hearts.

G.o.d save Old England by His grace!

We all alike beseech, Who know the English soil or race And speak the English speech.

THE SCOT.

That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess, Nor has been since the time of the fall; Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless, He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all.

"Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atone For the lack of a t.i.ttle or jot; And, although we don't boast, it is very well known For some things you must go to a Scot.

If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heart Of a man who had few for his peers, An approved son of genius and master of art.

And a lover, with laughter and tears; A song that gives honor to personal worth, And enn.o.bles the lowliest lot, And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth; You must go "for a' that" to a Scot.

If you want a good story, entrancingly told, By a genuine king of the pen, A right royal dispenser of things new and old, And a faithful portrayer of men; A tale that will brighten your work and your play, And will do what some others do not,-- Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray; You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot.

If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truce With a foeman on suppliant knee, The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce, Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee; Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue, Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot, Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true, You will find them to-day in a Scot.

If you want an intense love of country and kin, An attachment as tender as strong, That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin, And the tear start at sound of a song; A grand patriotic devotion and pride, That makes sanctified ground of the spot Where a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died; You will find what you want in a Scot.

If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel, Independent and honest and good, With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel, And tenacious of purpose--and shrewd; Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile, Who's contented with what he has got, But is ready and careful to add to his pile; You may find what you want in a Scot.

Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash, Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw, Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash, Or to thole whigmaleeries ava; Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee, But is siccer and dour as a stot; Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree; Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.

GLOSSARY.--"Nae sheep-shank bane" (Burns), no unimportant person; "gars," makes; "chiel," fellow; "gin," if; "wush," wish; "douce,"

sober; "auldfarrant," wise; "gash," sagacious; "unco," uncommonly; "waukrife," wideawake; "couthie," kindly; "braw," handsome; "ower,"

over; "eydent," busy; "daft," foolish; "clishmaclavers," idle talk; "fash," trouble; "thole," bear; "whigmaleeries," crotchets; "ava," at all; "collieshangie," commotion; "fley," disturb; "siccer," steady; "dour," stubborn; "stot," ox; "scone," a cake; "kebbuck," a cheese; "carries the gree" (Burns), has the pre-eminence; "spierin'," inquiring.