August, revered,
Our nation's sire,
By years of toil,
Through battles dire,
You bought for us
Our far-flung land,
A home for freemen
Dreamed and planned.

God grant that we
Who praise your name
And priceless worth,
Who hail your fame,
Shall through the years,
Undaunted, plan
To make the world
A Home for Man.

August, revered,
—Our nation's sire,
By years of toil,
—Through battles dire,
You bought for us
—Our far-flung land,
A home for freemen
—Dreamed and planned.

God grant that we

" Auchanachie Gordon is bonny and braw,
He would tempt any woman that ever he saw;
He would tempt any woman, so has he tempted me,
And I 'll die if I getna my love Auchanachie."

In came her father, tripping on the floor,
Says, Jeanie, ye 're trying the tricks o a whore;
Ye 're caring for them that cares little for thee;
Ye must marry Salton, leave Auchanachie.

" Auchanachie Gordon, he is but a man;
Altho he be pretty, where lies his free land?
Salton's lands they lie broad, his towers they stand hie,

A BALLAD .

An Attorney was taking a turn,
 In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
 And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
 His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
 And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
 A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song;
 Or complainingly talked to himself:

“Unfortunate man that I am!

On the death of virtuous Lady

Attired in black, spangled with flames of fire,
Embroiderid with stars in silent night,
While Phoebus doth the lower world inspire
With his bright beams and comfort-breathing sprite,
I come in clouds of grief, with pensive soul,
Sending forth vapours of black discontent
To fill the concave circle of the Pole,
And with my tears bedew each continent:
Because that she that made my night seem day
By her pure virtues' ever-shining lamps,
Now makes my night more black by her decay,

 Attend, ye mournful Parents, while
I sing, a Mother in Israel ;
The fam'd, the gracious Shunamite ,
Whose beauteous Story would invite
A Saint to yield her only one,
Almost without a Tear or Groan.
 A wondrous Son she did embrace,
Heaven's signal Work, and special Grace;
Nor long embrac'd, but on her Knees
Arrested by a fierce Disease,
Scarce could he cry, My Head, My Head!
E'er the dear Parent saw him dead:
She laid him breathless on the Bed.
 Deep was her Anguish, yet her Peace
She held, and went to God for Ease.

ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.

Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.

Attend church? Of course we do
Like others in our set,
Except on days that seem too cold
Or hot or wet.
And then, of course, in summer,
Just to keep up to par,
We take the kids on Sundays
For a joy ride in the car.
And sometimes, too, in spring and fall
I take a Sunday off
And hurry to the country club
To have a game of golf.
But all the other Sundays
You will find us in our pew,
For we always go to church
When we've nothing else to do.

All day he shoves the pasteboard in
The slick machine that turns out boxes,
A box a minute; and its din
Is all his music, as he stands
And feeds it; while his jaded brain
Moves only out and in again
With the slick motion of his hands,
Monotonously making boxes,
A box a minute—all his thoughts
A slick succession of empty boxes.

But, when night comes, and he is free
To play his fiddle, with the music
His whole soul moves to melody;
No more recalling day's dumb round,
His reckless spirit sweeps and whirls

Athirst in spirit, through the gloom
Of an unpeopled waste I blundered,
And saw a six-winged Seraph loom
Where the two pathways met and sundered.
He set his fingers on my eyes:
His touch lay soft as slumber lies--
And like an eagle's, scared and shaken,
Did my prophetic eyes awaken.
He touched my ears, and lo! they rang
With a reverberating clang:
I heard the spheres revolving, chiming,
The angels in their soaring sweep,
The monsters moving in the deep,
The vines low in the valley climbing.
And from my mouth the Seraph wrung

A THENS , a fragile kingdom by the foam,
Assumed the stranger's yoke; but then behold how meek
Those unbred Caesars grew, who spent their fruits of Rome
For ever after, trying to be Greek.

I too shook out my locks like one born royal;
For she dissolved in tears, and said my barbarous name,
And took my oath, she was so piteous and loyal:
Vote the young Caesar triumph, spread his fame!

But oh, I find my captive was not caught.
It was her empty house that fell before my legions;
Of where her soul inhabits I have conquered naught;