eyes to give her comfort, and then placed
in her pocket under her cold, bloodless, listless
touch.

TRADE SONGS. THE SHOWMAN.

COME, look into my puppet-show ; a penny is the
money:
Here's the king, he's in his counting-house, eating
bread and honey;
And the queen she's in her garden, hanging out her
gown,
'Midst ladies of the bed-chamber all walking up and
down.

And with this I trudge thro' London,
The alleys and lanes of London,
Where young and old are bought and sold,
And innocent folks are undone.

Here are members of the City guilds, eating all their
dinners;
And members, too, of Parliament, some saints and
many sinners;
Here are traders, and evaders, the humble and the
proud,
Some slyly slip away ( to Spain ), some boldly face
the crowd.

And these are all in London,
They swell and strut in London, &c.

Here are gents of all professions ; you may know
them by their coats;
Here are soldiers, for the ladies ; here are sailors, in
their boats;
Here are two who nothing have to do, and do it all
aright;
The shoes denote the gentleman, the boots they mark
the knight.

And this is all in London, &c.

Here are lords who wait, the slaves of State, and bow
when they are bidden;
And warriors old, in courtly gold, who cringe when
they are chidden;
And Lady Grace, all paint and lace, whose virtue is
so slack,
And dames who sigh for a gallant's eye, and push
their daughters back.

And this is all in London,
These sights are all in London, &c.

Here's a Parson full of flummery ; a Quaker always
spouting;
And Tories dress'd in Whiggish vests, the which they
go about in;
Here's modesty in sempstresses ; here's honesty in
jail;
And here's a famous Puppet-show, whose wonders
never fail.

And with this I trudge through London, &c.

THE NIGHT BEGGAR.

IN a damp and dreary cellar
I was born;
Want, and cold, and hunger found me
There forlorn.
God, perhaps, in pity heard me,
For a heart of courage stirr'd me,
And I gave back blow for blow,
Scorn for scorn.

Active limbs and sturdy sinews
Were my all ;
Bore me on thro' many a battle,
Many a fall.
Yet, with such a life before me,
Sometimes did an angel o'er me
(Hope the angel) gently sigh,
Gently call.

Nature stamped her frown upon me
At my birth :
Never did my look betoken
Love or worth.
So I shun the sight of morning,
Wandering ever, scorned and scorning,
Thro' the earth.

MOTHER'S FIRST LODGER.

WHEN my mother and I took No. 32, of the
High-street, Aiskrigg (of which the ground floor
is a shop sublet to the butcher), we found that,
after portioning off a tidy parlour, a room for
ourselves, and a cupboard for the maid, there
yet remained two nice front rooms, one just
over the shop window, the other right above
that, which, as I said to my mother, were just
the thing for a lodger.

"Our income isn't large, mother," I said ;
a little help of this sort would be most
desirable. And it is one of the best situations in
the place, just opposite the post-office and the
baker's. If people wish for country air, the
back windows look right down on the churchyard.
Besides, it's a genteel-looking house; the
side passage and green door make it very private;
and the people coming and going to the shop
below give a cheerful appearance. I am sure,
if we bought a bit of drugget, and put in the
chiffonier that belonged to my aunt, the horsehair
sofa, the round table, and that picture of you
in your green satinet, we should have our choice
of lodgers any day.

My mother looked up sharply from her knitting;
so sharply that she jerked a stitch over
her pin, and made a mess with her stocking,
that kept me bothering over it for the next half
hour. "I won't have no young men, I can tell
you, Patty," she said, decidedly. "No young
men. It wouldn't be right, on any account.
You're an unmarried woman, Patty, and people
might talk. I don't know that I approve of the
idea in any wise. But, as you say, it would help
the rent, and this move of ours has made a hole
in the last quarter. We might look out for a
single lady, or a widow."

My mother took out her red silk
pocket-handkerchief (which had been my father's, and
she used it in remembrance of him) and wiped
the moisture from her weak eyes. The sunlight
was glancing into the room over the green
blinds—a line of yellow along the faded carpet,
a white star on the polished back of the
mahogany arm-chair, falling on my mother's face and
dazzling her eyes, then losing itself amongst the
gilt bindings in the bookcase.

I got up, pulled down the blind, and
unravelled the knitting; my mother watching with
her elbows resting on her apron, and her shaking
head supported between her two hands and the
red handkerchief. For a few minutes we sat
silent: I taking up the stitches and shrugging
my shoulders at the notion of a widow lady,