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GRASS.

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hillside,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor;
Here, where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street

My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart

Toiling his busy part—
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come
And deck your silent home-
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
My humble song of praise

Most joyfully I raise

To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

W. Bennett.

A SCOTTISH WINTER.

NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear:
Late gazing down the steepy linn
That hems our little garden in,
Low in its dark and narrow glen,
You scarce the rivulet might ken;

So thick the tangled greenwood grew,
So feeble trilled the streamlet through.
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through bush and briar, no longer green,
An angry brook it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade,
And, foaming brown, with doubled speed
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our forest hills is shed;

No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;
Away hath passed the heather-bell,
That bloomed so rich on Needpath-Fell.

The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To sheltered dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines,
And yet a watery sunbeam shines:
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,
And wraps him closer from the cold;
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel.
My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,
As best befits the mountain child,
Feel the sad influence of the hour,
And wail the daisy's vanished flower;
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,
And anxious ask-Will Spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

Yes, prattlers, yes; the daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round;
And while you frolic light as they,
Too short shall seem the summer day.

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I SAW a little streamlet flow

Along a peaceful vale,

A thread of silver, soft and slow,
It wandered down the dale;
Just to do good it seemed to move,
Directed by the hand of love.

The valley smiled in living green;
A tree, which near it gave
From noon-tide heat a friendly screen,
Drank from its limpid wave.

The swallow brushed it with her wing,
And followed its meandering.

But not alone to plant and bird
That little stream was known,
Its gentle murmur far was heard-
A friend's familiar tone!
It glided by the cotter's door,
It blessed the labour of the poor.

And would that I could thus be found,
While travelling life's brief way,
A humble friend to all around,
Where'er my footsteps stray;

Like that pure stream, with tranquil breast,
Like it, still blessing, and still blest.

Lim'-pid, clear, transparent.

Me-an'-der-ing, winding, turning.

M. A. Stoddart.

Cot'-ter, an inhabitant of a cottage.

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PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON.

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