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POE TRY. ^ ;!

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POE TRY. OLD DOBBIX. Here's a song for olfi Dobbiii whose temper and worth" Are too rare to be spur.n'(i on. the score of his birth; He's a creature of trust. and wllat more should we heed ? Tis dee/ls and not blood make the man and the steed. He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain,; Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good-humour that dwelt in his eye. The Summer had waned, and the Autumn months roll'd, Into those of stern Winter, all dreary and cold, But the north wind might whistle, the, snowflake might dance, The colt of the common was left to his chance. Half starved and half frozen, the hail-storm would pelt, Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt; But we^pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all, We fill d him a manger, and gave him a stall. He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame You may judge of his fame, when his price was a crown, But we christen'd him Dobbin, and c.ll'd him our own. He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change, The knowing ones said it was mortally strange, For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice. of jockeys of taste. The line of his symmetry was not esact, But his-paces were clever, his mould was compact; And his shaggy thick coat now appear'd with a gloss, Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross. We brdTce him for service, and tamely he wore Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldrom he bore Every farm has a steed for all work and all hours, And Dobbin, the sturdy bay pony, was ours. He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever return'd with him safely again; There was merit in that, for, deny it who may, When the master could not, Dobbin coiitd find his way. The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back, Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack The team horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks, So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks. We fun-loving urchins would group by his side, We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail, But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail. We would brush his bright bide till 't was free from a speck We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugi'd his thick neck Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob. He stood to the collar, and tugg'd up the hill, With the pigs to the niajket, the grist to the mill With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace, He was staunch to his work, and content with his place. When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year, He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer; And none in the corn-lield more welcome was seen Than Dob, and his well-laden panicrs I ween. Oh those days of pure bliss shall I ever forget, When we deck'd out his head with the azure rosette All frantic with joy, to be off to the fair, With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there ? He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years But, mercy! how's this ? my eye's filling with tears. Oh how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When Memory plays an old tune on the heart. There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast, But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest, Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen, With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green. His best years have gone by, and the master who gave The stem yoke to his youth, has enfranchised the slave, So browse on. my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife, For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. -Liturary Gaxette. E. C. THE ORIGINAL TIPPLER. BY PROFESSOR EVVBANK. Oh water for me, bright water for me Give wine to the tremulous debauchee It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain, It maketh the faint one strong again Incomes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, All freshness like infant purity. Oh water, bright water, for me, for me Give wine, give wine to the debauchee. Fill, fill to the brim-fill, fill to the brim, Let the flowing rrystal kiss the rim My hand is steady, my eye is true, For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew. Oh water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health So water, pure water, for me, for me Give wine to the tremulous debauchee. Fill again to the brim, again to the brim, For water strengtheneth life and limb To the days of the aged it addeth length, To the might of the strong it giveth strength It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight, It is like quaffing a goblet of morning light! So, water, I will drink nothing but thee, Thou parent of health and energy. When o'er the hills, like an Eastern bride, Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride, Leading a band of laughing hours, And brushing the dew from the noddinc flowers, Oh, cheerily then my voice is heard ° Mingling with that of the soaring bird, Who flingeth abroad his matins loud, As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud. But when ev'ning has quitted her chittering yew, Drowsily flying and weaving anew Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea, How gently, oh, sleep fall thy poppies on me For I drink water, pure, clear, and bright, And my dreams arc of Heaven the live long night. So hurrah for thee, water hurrah, hurrah Thou art silver and gold, thou art riband and star Hurrah for bright water, hurrah, hurrah -Shrewsbury News.

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