I take my little porringer, The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain; So in the churchyard she was laid; Together round her grave we play'd, And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven." "But they are dead: those two are dead' "Twas throwing words away: for still And said, "Nay, we are seven !' ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS; SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear To think-and think-and think again; My boy was by my side, so slim The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; |