Part 13 (1/2)

T' Village Aram-Skaram.

In a little cot so dreary, With eyes and forehead hot and bleary, Sat a mother sad and weary, With her darling on her knee; Their humble fare at best was sparing, For the father he was shearing, With his three brave sons o' Erin, Down in the Fen country.

All her Saxon neighbours leave her, With her boy and demon fever, The midnight watch-none to relieve her, Save a Little Bisey Bee: He was called the Aram-Skaram, Noisy as a drum clock laram, Yet his treasures he would share 'em, With his friend right merrily.

Every night and every morning, With the day sometimes at dawning, While the mother, sick and swooning, To his dying mate went he: Robbing his good Saxon mother, Giving to his Celtic brother, Who asked-for him and no other, Until his spirit it was free.

Saw the shroud and saw the coffin; Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in; This little n.o.ble-hearted ruffin, At the wake each night went he: Sabbath morning he was ready, Warn'd the bearers to be steady, Taking Peter to his Biddy, And a tear stood in his e'e.

Onward as the corpse was pa.s.sing, Ere the priest gave his last blessing, Through the dingy crowd came pressing, The father and the brothers three: 'Tis our mother-we will greet her; How is this that here we meet her?

And without our little Peter, Who will solve this mystery?

The Aram-Skaram interfered, Soon this corpse will be interred, Come with us and see it burried, Out in yonder cemetery: Soon they knew the worst, and pondered Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;- And returning home, they wondered Who their little friend could be!

Turning round to him they bowed, Much they thanked him, much they owed; While the tears each cheek bedewed, Wisht him all prosperity: ”Never mind,” he said, ”my brothers, What I have done, do ye to others; We're all poor barns o' some poor mothers,”

Said the little Bisey Bee.

Behold How the Rivers!

Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea, Sending their treasures so careless and free; And to give their a.s.sistance each Spring doth arise, Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.

Find out the haunts o' the low human pest, Give to the weary, the poor, and distressed; What if unthankful and thankless they be, Think of the giver that gave unto thee.

Go travel the long lanes on misery's virge, Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge; Where want and famine, and by ourselves made, Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.

Give to yon widow-thy gift is thrice blest, For tho' she be silent, the harder she's pressed; A small bit o' help to the little she earns, G.o.d blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.

'Neath the green gra.s.sy mounds o' yon little church yard, An over-wrought genius there finds his reward; And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee, Such are the givers that give unto me.

Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,- What if no birdie should chant thee a strain; What if no daisy should smile on the lea; The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.

For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may, That thou mayest venture to give all away; Ere nature again her balmy dews send, Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.

The World's Wheels.

Aw steady an' easy t'oud world's wheels wod go, If t'folk wod be honist an' try to keep so; An' at steead o' been hastey at ivvery wun, Let us enquire afore we condemn.

A man may do wrong an' scarce be to blame, Or a woman be bad e nout bud her name; But which on us ought ta say ought unto them, Unless we enquire afore we condemn.