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SONG OF THE OLD YEAH.

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SONG OF THE OLD YEAH. BY ELIZA. COOKE. Oh I have been raaning a gallant career On a coarser that needeth nor bridle nor goad But he'll soon change his rider and leave the Old Year Lying low in the dust on Eternity's road. Wide has ray track been, and rapid my haste, But whoever takes heed of my journey will find, That in marble-bailt city and camel-trod waste, I have left a fair set of bold waymarks behind. I have choked np the earth with the sturdv elm board, I have chequered the air with the banners of strife, Fresh are the tombstones I ve scattered abroad, Bright are tbe young eyes I've opened to life. My race is nigh o er on Time's iron-gray steed, Yet hell still gallop on as he gallops with me, And you'll see tbat his name will be flying again Ere you have buried me under the green holly-tree. If ve tell of the sadness and evil I've wrought, Yet remember the shares of good works" I have done Ye should balance the clouds and the canker rye brought "ïth the grapes J have sent to be crushed in Ihe sun. If I ve added grav threads to the worldly-wise heads, I have deepened tbe cbesnat of Infancy's curl; If I've cherished tbe germ of the shipwrecking worm, I have qaickened the growth of the crown-studding pearl; If I've lengthened this yew till it brushes the pall, I have bid the sweet shoots of the orange bloom sweU If rye Ihickened the moss on the ruin's dank wall. I have strengthened the love-bower tendrils as well. Then speak of ine fairly, and give the Old Year A light-hearted parting in kindness and glee, Chant a roundelay over my laurel-decked bier, And bory me under the green holly-tree. Ye have murmured of late at my gloom laden hours, And look on my pale wrinkled face with a frown; Bnt ye laughed wilen I spanglerl your pathway with flowers, And flun^ the red clover and yellow corn down. Ye shrink from my breathing, and say that I bite— So I do- but forget not how friendly we were When I fann'd your warm cheek in the soft summer-night, And just toyed with the rose in the merry girl's hair. Fill the goblet and drink as my wailing tones sink, Let the wassaii-bowl drip and the revel shont rise— But a word in your ear, from the passing Old Year, 'Tis the last time he'll teach ye—'• be merry and wise Then sing. while I'm sighing my latest farewell, The log-lighted ingle my death pyre shall be: Dance, dance, while I'am dying, blend carol and bell, And bury me under the green holly-tree.

XttY NATIVE VILLAGE.

PRIVCE ALBERTS VISIT TO BIRMINGHAM.

DIARY TABLE FOR 1844.

EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE.----

AGRICULTURE.

.PRICE OF G It,% I N. -Pet-…

GLEA NINGS.

I COPPER ORE,