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Where are they, our brothers-children?
Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
Is it weal or is it woe?"

Like a corpse the grisly warrior
Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer-
Only with his armed heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward
Up the city-streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying by his side.
"By the God that made thee, Randolph!
Tell us what mischance hath come."

Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the askers' voice is dumb.

The elders of the city

Have met within their hall

The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall.

"Your hands are weak with age," he said,
"Your hearts are stout and true;

So bide ye in the Maiden town,
While others fight for you.

My trumpet from the Border-side
Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of Heaven
That back I never come,

And if, instead of Scottish shouts,
Ye hear the English drum,-

Then let the warning bells ring out,
Then gird ye to the fray,

Then man the walls like burghers stout,
And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame
The roof should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
Should trample in the town!"
Then in came Randolph Murray,—
His step was slow and weak,
And as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet,
And on his mailéd hand,

As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.

And none who then beheld him
But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
They knew so sad a messenger
Some ghastly news must bring,
And all of them were fathers,

And their sons were with the King.

And up then rose the Provost-
A brave old man was he,

Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.

Oh, woeful now was the old man's lcck,

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And he spake right heavily:

Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!

Woe is written on thy visage,

Death is looking from thy face; Speak! though it be of overthrowIt cannot be disgrace!"

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,
And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner
To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying, "That is all I bring ye
From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it-

It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,
As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.

"Ay! ye well may look upon it-
There is more than honor there,
Else, be sure, I had not brought it
From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner
Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shroud shall lie.

Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,

Keep it as a sacred thing,

For the stain you see upon it

Was the life-blood of your king!"

Woe, woe, and lamentation!

What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!

"Oh, the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
Oh, our King! the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
Oh, our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again?"

Till the ak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shattered stem,-
Wives and mothers of Dunedin,-
Ye may look in vain for them!

A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.-C. F. BROWN.

Where, where will be the birds that sing,

A hundred years to come?

The flowers that now in beauty spring,

A hundred years to come?

The rosy lips, the lofty brow,

The heart that beats so gayly now,

Oh, where will be love's beaming eye,

Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh,
A hundred years to come?

Who'll press for gold this crowded street
A hundred years to come?

Who'll tread yon church with willing feet,
A hundred years to come?

Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth;
The rich and poor, on land and sea,
Where will the mighty millions be
A hundred years to come?

We all within our graves shall sleep
A hundred years to come;

No living soul for us will weep,

A hundred years to come.

But other men our lands shall till,

And others, then, these streets will fill,
And other birds will sing as gay,

And bright the sun shine as to-day

A hundred years to come.

A STRANGER IN THE PEW.-MARY E. DODGE.

Poor little Bessie! She tossed back her curls,
And, though she is often the sweetest of girls,
This was something she couldn't and wouldn't endure;
"Twas the meanest, most impolitic act, she was sure,

And a thing, she declared, that she never would do;
To go to a church where one didn't belong,
Then walk down the aisle like the best in the throng,
And seat one's self plump in another one's pew.

Humph! Didn't her father own his, out and out;
And didn't they fill it up full, just about,
When mamma and papa, and herself and the boys,
Were seated? And didn't their boots make a noise
In moving along to make room for a stranger?
And wasn't it cool, with the brazenest face,
To expect at each hymn pa would find out the place?
(If Ben didn't, or Bob, but there wasn't much danger.)
With such feelings at heart, and their print on her face,
Last Sunday our Bessie hitched out of her “place"
To make room for a girl, very shabby and thin,
Who had stood in the aisle till mamma asked her in.
The poor little thing tried her best not to crowd;
And Bessie, forgetting, soon had the mishap
To slip from her drowsiness into a nap,

From which she awakened by crying aloud.

Poor Bessie sat upright, with cheeks all aflame
At sleeping in church, and we felt for her shame;
But 'twas strange at the close of the service to see
Our Bessie, now gentle as gentle could be,

Take the hand of the shabby young girl in the pew,
And walk with her out of the church with a smile
That shone through the tears in her eyes all the while,
And brightened her face with a radiance new.

"Good-by," whispered Bessie at parting, “and mind
Our pew's forty-five, with a pillar behind.”
Then she stole to her mother: "O mother, I dreamed
Such a curious dream! 'Twas no wonder I screamed.
I thought I was sitting in church in this dress,
With a girl like a beggar-child right in our pew-
We were sitting alone in the seat, just we two-
And I felt more ashamed than you ever could guess;

"When all in a moment, the music grew loud,
And on it came floating a beautiful crowd;

They were angels, I knew, for they joined in the song,
And all of them seemed in the church to belong.

Slowly and brightly they sailed through the air;
The rays from the window streamed crimson and blue,
And lit them in turn as their forms glided through;
I could feel their soft robes passing over my hair.

"One came to my side. Very sadly she said, "There's a stranger in here.' I lifted my head, And looked at the poor shabby girl with disdain. ""Tis not she,' said the angel; the haughty and vain Are the strangers at church. She is humble and true.' Then I cried out aloud, and the minister spoke,

And just as they floated away I awoke,

And there sat that dear little girl in our pew!"
-Harper's Magazine.

STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.-MRS. WHITNEY.

Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quite she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there

lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled round shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her, and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, " Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid

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