BOATMAN'S HYMN.

BARK, that bears me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle-wall!

Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop.

On the tide top, the tide top

Wherry aroon, my land and store!

On the tide top, the tide top,

She is the boat can sail galore!

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale-
And O if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide top, the tide top

Wherry aroon, my land and store!

On the tide top, the tide top,

She is the boat can sail galore!

Whillan ahoy!— Old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine,

On the tide top, the tide top?
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide top, the tide top,
She is the boat can sail galore!

BOATMAN'S HYMN.

Says Whillan, Since first I was made of stone,
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone;
But, till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine!

On the tide top, the tide top
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide top, the tide top,
She is the boat can sail galore!

NEARER TO THEE.

Give us the shelter of strand or rock,

Or through and through us she goes with a shock!
On the tide top, the tide top-

Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide top, the tide top,

She is the boat can sail galore!

Translation of SAMUEL FERGUSON.

NEARER TO THEE.

NEARER, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee!

Though, like a wanderer,
The sun gone down,

Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone,

Yet in my dreams I'd be

Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

There let the way appear
Steps unto heaven ;

ANONYMOUS. (Irish.)

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three:
"Pull! if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best!" quoth hee.

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.

66

Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells!

Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!""

Men say it was a stolen tyde

The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall;
And there was nought of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied,

By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and span within the doore;

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:
The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And, dark against day's golden death,
She moved where Lindis wandereth
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;

Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking song.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
For the dews will soone be falling;