An I wadna stay him by a word;

A man mun do his best,

When mariners strive wi t' sea and death,

An God mun heed t' rest.

Oor first born sailed for t' Whälery;
I know'd I'd na call ta pine;
We all are like to do oor wark,
An it's better sune or syne.

But many a winter's neet I cried,
For oor lad sa far away,

As t' tide cam thunnering ower t' reef,
An its roar roase up t' bay.

At last they sighted t' Amazon,

I seed her flag afar;

They shouted on t' pier, and tossed their caps, As she cam ower t' harbor bar.

She'd browt a wealth o' oil and bänes,
A' owner wer fain to see;

She'd browt back many a muther's son,
But niver ma boy to me.

She'd none browt hame oor bonny lad;
He wer left i' t' Greenland wäves;
Honey, dost think they'll rise as wick
As them i't' Churchgarth gräves?

Oor Harry wer lost, yan stormy neet,
Off t' coast o' Elsinore;

I ofens thinks I hears his laugh,

When t' gales t' loodest roar.

For he'd call it "beautiful" an all,
Yon sea sa cruel and strong;
Ma wark wer set to hinder him
Frev t' water all day long.

An t' others? Well, I'll tell the' bairn:
'Twer an aternoon i' March,

An t' sea, frae Nab to Kettleness,
Wer foäming white as t' starch.

T' sky wer coarse, an t' swell wer fierce,
An t' wind blew waur and waur,
When a cry roase up frev t' crowded staithes,
That a brig were fast on t' scaur.

They hauled t' lifeboät doun t' roäd;
They'd naan to seek her crew-
T' Yorkshire lads are niver slack,
Wi' parlous wark to do.

Oor boys wer there, oor George laughed out,

As t' spray dashed iv his face;

An Charlie shooted out ma näme,
As he saw me in ma pläce.

His sweetheart stood agin me there—

She wer a gradely lass

Ther wer none sa stern in all t' toun,
But smiled to see her pass.

But she went dateless, t' poor fond thing,

Or ever t' morning grey

Rose ower t' sorrowful toun it left,

That black and bitter day.

Thrice went t' boat thruf wind and wave,
And thrice she wonned her home,
Till every saul in two brave barks
Were snatched from t' kingdom come.

Folk thronged aroond to treat t' lads
As wor spent wi' toil and drooth,

When thruf t' scud and mist they seed a ship,
Drive right past t' harbor's mooth.

Ther wer plenty there, sea-faring men,
An naither weak nor nesh,

An keen to tak a part at last,
An man t' boat afresh.

But t' crew wer wilful an ower wrowt,
They leapt frev t' edge o' t' pier,
An pushed her off mid t' breakers there.
With naither wit nor fear.

Up yonder i' t' hoos iv Hagalythe,
I'd wakkened a cheery low:
I knowed ma boys ud need a drop,
For t' wind wer thick wi' snow.

An time had quietened half ma fear,
I reckoned as t' warst wer done,
When I heerd a sudden fearful skrike,
An t' grate crowd heaved an run.

I seed t' men dash amang t' surf,
An t' women faant and flee;
I seed 'em rive t' capstan planks
An fling 'em out iv t' sea.

She'd caught i' t' back sweep, close t'u t' bar,
I'll hardlings tell the' more;

There wer twelve brave lads as started her;
They drew but yan t'u t' shore.

Whisht, bairn, there's trouble ower deep for words;
Lang sin I cried my fill;

I went next day, when t' wind were lound,
Where t' waves had wrowt their will.

I fund 'em lying side by side;
I seed 'em at ma feet;

Their eyes wer aupen, and fixed abuv,
Their smile wer grave an sweet.

I seed 'em, oor two bonny lads,
I'd nursed 'em at my breast;
Ill framed these withered hands o' mine
To streak 'em for their rest.

They said oor cry went thruf t' land,
To t' Queen upon her throan;
Brass cam eneaf to dry sum tears,
Ere t' graves were owergrown.

It didna mickle gude to me,

I knaw'd ma sorrow mesel;

I'se none sa fond o' seeking folk
Of ma loansome hearth to tell.

Oor John will mebby cloase ma eyes—

A reet good son is he;

But, bairn, if t' sea be "beautiful,"

Doan't threep on it to me.

AN AMERICAN SPECIMEN.

EAVING the Expedition outside to rest, I quartered

myself in the chalet, with Harris, purposing to correct my journals and scientific observations before continuing the ascent of the Riffelberg. I had hardly begun my work when a tall, slender, vigorous American youth of about twenty-three, who was on his way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with the breezy self-complacency which is the adolescent's idea of the well bred ease of the man of the world. His hair was short and parted accurately in the middle, and he had all the look of an American person who would be likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middle name out. He introduced himself, smiling a smirky smile borrowed from the courtiers of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon, and whilst he gripped my hand in it he bent his body forward three times at the hips, as the stage courtier does, and said in the airiest and most condescending and patronizing way,-I quote his exact language,

"Very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed, assure you. I've read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, and when I heard you were here, I-”

I indicated a chair, and he sat down. This grandee was the grandson of an American of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgotten yet,—a man who came so near being a great man that he was quite generally accounted one while he lived.

I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific pro blems, and heard this conversation :

Grandson. First visit to Europe?
Harris. Mine? Yes.