POETRY.
THE RICH WOMAN.
HAY in the haggard and cows in the byre, A turf stack is filled with its store for the fire. What way am I wanting my heart's deep desire P
Linen new woven and meal in the chest,
A cloak of red frieze that I bought in the west,--, But sorra a babe I can rook on my breast.
Money laid by and a parcel of land, A boat in the harbour, the house where I stand,— B ut God for a child that would clutch at my hand..
Milk and fresh butter and flour to spare,
The chuckens, the goats, an' the turkeys to rare, But never a little wee child I can care.
The beggar goes by, a babe in her shawl, A wee one streels after and runs at her call. 'Tie I am the beggar, and she that has all.
God send me a child with the sorrow and pain, Let him waken the quiet and squander the gain, For I'm counting my riches and plenty in vain.
A child that will know to spoil and to tear, .
What matter the trouble and moidher and care, So I'm hearing the fall of his feet on the stair.
A beggar I am—shall I not be blessed With a baby come home that will sleep on my breast? Let me be a mother, 0 Christ, with the rest 1 W. M. tms.-
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