yal Court.

The Spaniard with his javelin knife
The wild bull's flesh he tears;
But alack a-day! what sports are they
With our grand cricketeers.

And well old Keighley can be proud
Of her famed sons to-day;
Some of them are with us yet,
While others are away.

Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring,
With good men in the rear,
And not forgetting Emmett,
The brave old cricketeer.

Then while they have their Grand Bazaar,
Pray let us rally round,
And give a hand to renovate
Their well-loved cricket ground.

For well I wot both young and old,
Will find from year to year,
More interest in the noble sport
Of the grand old cricketeer.

The Mexican may throw his lance,
The Scotchman put his stone,
With all the scientific skill
Of muscle and of bone.

Give Switzerland her honour'd place
With rifles and with spears,
But give to me our grand old sport,
Our famous cricketeers.

[Picture: Rural scene]

Christmas Day.

Sweet lady, 'tis no troubadour,
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
So grand and gay;
But one that sings "Remember th' poor,
'Tis Christmas Day."

Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the locks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow's heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy bones stark mad
To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne'er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
From out your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.

Wi' Him I call my own.

The branches o' the woodbine hide
My little cottage wall,
An' though 'tis but a humble thatch,
I envy not the hall.

The wooded hills before my eyes
Are spread both far and wide;
An' Nature's grandeur seems to dress,
In all her lovely pride.

It is, indeed, a lovely spot,
O' singing birds an' flowers;
'Mid Nature's grandeur it is true,
I pass away my hours.

Yet think not 'tis this lovely glen,
So dear in all its charms;
Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,
Freed from the world's alarms.

For should love's magic change the scene,
To trackless lands unknown,
'Twere Eden i