POETRY.

THE END OF THE LONG JOURNEY.

JOHN SANDERSON was dying,

In summer, on Mendir-side, In the co:0 age where his father, And father's father, died.

And dying has grown so common, And old men are so (heap ; There was only the parish doctor To see him off to sleep. And he thought he would last till morning,

And left him in neighbour's care ; The tavern was terribly handy—

Death came when none was there.

But he welcomed the awful stranger With a smile of wrinkled joy, And only patiently sighing, " I'd like for to see my boy : The lad as runned from the village A mort of years ago, And went to Bristow and 'listed, And left me the weeds to hoe.

Couldn't un eight and wrussle ; Couldn't un whistle and zing ; The maids a could smarm and viggle ; The lads a could hold and fling."

Sweet scent of the sad sweet-briar Came in from the garden bed; And he heard the wicket rattle, And he heard the sound of a tread, That rang on the stony threshold, And woke the sleeping cat ;

And the gleam of a scarlet tunic,—

The dying eyes saw that.

He saw a form in the doorway, Against the sunset, black ; And far too old to be fearful, He said, " My boy's come back ;" And groping with feeble fingers, " My even be cruel dim, wants to see thy veace, lad, Come here to thy vaither, Jim ; Th'st a ribbin in button-hole, Jimmy, Wi' a star as shines zo vine, And summat o' iron, For Valour,'— Be all they whimsies thine ?"

A strong arm lifted his shoulders ; A brown hand lifted his head : '" We'm quality now for sartin," He, tittering weakly, said.

And so on the breast of scarlet, Between the cross and the star, The old man lay, as he waited To pass the utmost bar.

But while his fleet soul fluttered, And strove to die and live ; The lips behind him whispered The hoarse words, " Father, forgive."

And out of the thronging shadows, The answer faltered, " No, Not now, dear lad ; I done it A mort o' years ago."

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.