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A WIDOW mother had a lad,

Now sixteen years was he;
And nothing would content his heart,

But he must go to sea.
Then said the widow, “God is great

Upon both sea and land;
And sailor people he must have,

And lives are in his hand.”

So, with many thoughts of waves and rocks,
She put a Bible in his box;

And as he took the key,

him in her tears a kiss, Saying, " William, when you read in this,

You'll often think of me.”

To comfort her at home were left

Two daughters and a son:
She loved them much, but often thought

About her sailor one.
Sometimes she said, “He's surely lost,"
Then soon a letter came by post,

With William's writing on;
And as they all the letter read,
The widow raised her eyes and said,
“How very thankful we should be
To hear good news from one at sea !”
Sometimes, with hope that all was well,
There came a curious bird or shell,

From some far place at sea ;



Sometimes, a letter money bore-
He sent it, wishing it was more,

To help the family ;
And then around the times would come,
When he left his ship to visit home,

With his mother dear to be :
And when she saw him, tall and strong,
The widow thought no more how long

She had waited patiently;
But she said, “How quickly time has flown !
And William, boy, how much you've grown

Since first you went to sea!"

Now his brother James, the carpenter,

Was rising by degrees,
And both the sisters married were,

With little families-
When home came William with a wife;

Born far away was she ;
Her accent foreign, dark her face ;
She had a woman's truth and grace,

And loved him tenderly.
And he kiss'd her, and call’d her “ Dearest life !"
And said, “ Mother, she has shared with me
In many perils of the sea.”

The pitying mother hears a tale

Of dangers on the sea ;
How dark the night, how strong the gale,

How nearly drown'd was he.
And then she

says, “ God bless thee, lad !
It makes my old heart very glad

Your face once more to see."


The widow now was growing grey

Warm-hearted still was she;
And William's wife was often told

How good a son was he.
And then she said, “ This weary head

Soon in its rest will be."

And sickness came, and death drew near;
And once, when all around her were,
As William from the Scripture read,
She on the pillow raised her head,

Saying, "William, give it me.'
Then, in her trembling hand she took
An old and well-worn little book ;
And said, with a tear, “Why, William, this
Is the Bible I gave you with my kiss

When first you went to sea.”

Soon William stood by his mother's grave,
His tears as salt as any wave,

His breast heaved like the sea;
And the years of voyage he had known,
Came all at once, not one by one,

Back to his memory.

Then sadly home to his wife he went,
And, with head upon her bosom bent,
He said, “Oh, never was a man-
No, never since the world began-

With a better mother blest !”
And she answer'd, with her tenderest kiss,

“ It is true, it is true, I know it is; But, William, dearest, think of this She's quietly at rest.”





HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns!” he said :
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade !"
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho’ the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why
Their's but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:



Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke ;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made !
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !


8. EVERY LITTLE HELPS. Does not each rain-drop help to form

The cool refreshing shower? And every ray of light to warm And beautify the flower?


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