ravel too fast.
It is time that the cobbler returned to his last.

But your silence has been philosophic and deep,
And I hope you've enjoyed--why, the man is asleep!
Only closing your eyes? Well, perhaps that will do
To tell the marines, but it's grossly untrue.

I was speaking of England? Undoubtedly so,
So I was, but it's just twenty minutes ago.
I've been talking since then in a serious strain,
And perhaps 'tis as well that I've spoken in vain.

Don't apologise. What, is it time for your train?
Well, Douglas, then here's to our meeting again
And meanwhile, old man, don't forget the pedantic
And long-winded fellow across the Atlantic.

CHRISTMAS

'Tis Christmas day; the bells ring out
The joyous tidings far and near,
And children hail with gladsome shout
The merry sound of Christmas cheer.

'Tis Christmas day, the children's day,
When He was born a little child,
To take Creation's sin away,
And purify the Truth defiled.

He taught the world to walk by faith,
And, lest their feet should go astray,
He trod Himself the faithful path,
And showed His followers the way.

He taught a Hope to all oppressed
By Sorrow's weight or Sin's remorse;
Himself the contrite sinner blessed,
To give His words a greater force.

Oh! ye who tread in Trial's way,
Nor scarce can murmuring resist,
Remember, on His natal day,
The faithful suffering of Christ.

And ye, whose thoughts in memory trace
A darkened life of wrongful deeds,
Look up and see His kindly face,
Who now for your allegiance pleads.

Oh! Christians, to your name be true,
Cast all your faithlessness away,
And let your hope be born anew
On this, your Saviour's natal day.

A SERENADE.

From afar, in the dead of night,
By the moon's dim, uncertain light,
To salute thee with loving rite,
I come, sweetheart, I come.

Oh! refuse not to hear my lay;
From the depths of my soul I pray.
Let my accents my love betray
To thee, sweetheart, to thee.

As I sing in the shade below,
As the words of my greeting flow,
I am thrilled with the fervent glow
Of love, sweetheart, of love.

I have come from the silent moor,
In the still of the midnight hour;
I have come by my passion's power
For thee, sweetheart, for thee.

Then awake from thy slumbers light;
Ere he speed on his homeward flight,
Bid thy lover a last good-night.
Good-night, sweetheart, good-night!

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Song of the Exile--A