All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently enjoy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy:

Thee country boys with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy, thou

Dost neither age nor winter know

;

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

COWLEY.

WORK BEFORE PLAY.

MOTHER has sent me to the well

To fetch a jug of water, And I am very glad to be

A useful little daughter;

And that is why I cannot play
With you and Mary Ann to-day.

Some afternoon I'll come with you,
And make you wreaths and posies—
I know a place where blue-bells grow,
And daisies and primroses;

But not to-day, for I must go

And help my mother, dears, you know.

She says that I am nearly eight,

So I can fill the kettle,

And sweep the room, and clean the grate,
And even scrub a little ;
Oh! I'm so very glad to be
A useful little girl, you see.

So, Johnny, do not ask to-day-
Perhaps I'll come to-morrow,
But you'd not wish me now to stay,
And give my mother sorrow:
When she can spare me she will say,
"Now, Susan, you may go and play."

MRS. HAWTREY.

THE WELSH LAD.

OVER the mountain, and over the rock, Wanders young Taffy to follow his flock, While far above him he sees the wild goats,

Gallop about in their shaggy warm coats.

Sometimes they travel, in frolicsome crowds,

To the mountain's high top that is lost in the clouds,

Then they descend to the cottage again,

Or scale the black rocks that hang over the main.

Now when young Taffy's day's labour is o'er,
He cheerfully sits at his own cottage door;
While all his brothers and sisters around
Sit in a circle upon the bare ground.

Then their good father, with spectacled nose,
Reads the Bible aloud, ere he takes his repose;
While the pale moon rises over the hill,
And the birds are asleep, and all nature is still.

Now with his harp old Llewellyn is seen,
And joins the gay party that sits on the green;
He leans in the door-way, and plays them a tune,
And the children all dance by the light of the

moon.

How often the wretch, in a city so gay,

Where pleasure and luxury follow his way,

When health quite forsakes him, and cheerfulness

fails,

Might envy a lad on the mountains of Wales!

JANE TAYLOR.

PLAYING AT HORSES.

I'm going to Spain on my chesnut mare,
Do as I do, and you'll soon be there;
Trotting and cantering fast away—
Oh! Johnny, isn't this famous play?

Now ford this river deep and wide,
Now scale that mighty mountain's side;
And in that forest, dark as night,

With bandits, perhaps, we shall have to fight.

Perhaps we shall find a lady fair,

Tied to a tree by her auburn hair,

And a horrible dwarf high up in the tree,
Watching her sorrow with malice and glee.

And you shall be page, and I'll be a knight,
To rescue the dame from her terrible plight;
And in spite of enchanters and giants and all,
We'll carry her back to her father's hall.

Gallop away! gallop away!

Through them all we'll cut our way;
Gallop, and never draw bridle-rein,

Till we've reached our castle in sunny Spain !

MRS. HAWTREY.

THE IRISH BOY.

YOUNG Paddy is merry and happy, but poor;
His cabin is built in the midst of a moor:
No pretty green meadows about it are found,
But bogs in the middle, and mountains around.

This wild Irish lad, of all lads the most frisky,
Enjoys his spare meal of potatoes and whisky,
As he merrily sits, with no care on his mind,
At the door of his cabin and sings to the wind.

Close down at his feet lies his shaggy old dog, Who has plunged with his master thro' many a bog;

While Paddy sings "Liberty long shall reign o'er us,"

Shag catches his ardour, and barks a loud chorus.

Young Paddy, indeed, is not polish'd or mild,
But his soul is as free as his country is wild;
And tho' unacquainted with fashion or dress,
His heart ever melts at the sound of distress.

Then let us not laugh at his bulls or his blunders, His broad native brogue, or his ignorant wonders; Nor will we by ridicule ever destroy

The honest content of a wild Irish boy.