r thy breast?
An' art ta goan no more to see,
Exceptin' i' fond memory?
Yes, empty echo answers me--
"Shoe's deead an' goan!"

I' vain the wafters o' the breeze
Fan my hot brah,
I' vain the birds upon the trees,
Sing sweetly nah;
I' vain the early rose-bud blaws,
I' vain wide Nature shows her cause,
Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws--
"Shoe's deead an' goan!"

There's more ner me 'at's sad bereft,
I pity wun,
An' that's my lad--he's sadly left--
My little John;
He wander's up an' dahn all t'day,
An' rarely hez a word to say,
Save murmuring (an' weel he may),
"Shoo's deead an goan!"

Bud, Johnny lad, let's dry wer tears;
At t'least we'll try;
Thy mother's safe wi' Him 'at hears
T'poor orphan's sigh;
Fer 'tis the lot o' t'human mack--
An' who can tell which next he'll tack?
An' crying cannot bring her back;
"Shoe's deead an' goan!"

[Picture: Decorative picture of flowers]

Ode to an Herring.

Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves
The dangers o' the ocean waves
While monsters from the unknown caves
Make thee their prey;
Escaping which the human knaves
On thee lig way.

No doubt thou was at first designed
To suit the palates o' mankind;
Yet as I ponder now I find,
Thy fame is gone:
Wee dainty dish thou art behind
With every one.

I've seen the time thy silvery sheen
Wor welcome both at morn an' e'en,
Or any hour that's in between,
Thy name wor good;
But now by some considered mean
For human food.

When peace and plenty's smiling brow,
And trade and commerce speed the plough;
Thy friends that were not long ago,
Such game they make;
Thy epitaph is "soldier" now,
Or "two-eyed stake."

When times are hard we're scant o' cash,
And famine hungry bellies lash,
And tripe and trollabobble's trash
Begin to fail,
Asteead o' soups an' oxtail ash,
Hail! herring, hail!

Full monny a time it's made me groan,
To see thee stretched, despised, alone;
While turned-up noses passed have gone,
O' purse-proud men!
No friends, alas! save some poor one
Fra t'paddin can.

Whoe'er despise thee, let them know
The time may come when they may go
To some fish wife, and beg to know
If they can buy
The friendship o' their vanquished foe,
Wi' weeping eye.

To me naught could be better fun,
Than see a duke or noble don,
Or lord, or peer, or gen