CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. T.-O, John, that's awful too! may I And when I die, go safe to heaven? J.-Why, if you'll go with me to day T.—Well, I'll go with you; yet I'm thinking, J.-O, Tom, as you grow up in years, Or anything, more than you need, T.-Is there any scripture passage Which brings to drunkards any message? J.-Yes, and an awful message too! "For the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags."-Prov. xxiii. 21. "Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, shall inherit the kingdom of God.”—1 Cor. vi. 10. THE SOLDIERS SONG OF THE SWORD. "Envyings, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like; they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God." -Gal. v. 21. T-Hold, John, that's quite enough, do pray That I may never go that way. J.-Just let me state one passage more; J.-I'll now the passage bring to view : "If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, nor the voice of his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them; then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place: and they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious; he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton and a drunkard. And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die."-Deut. xxi. 18-21. T.-This dreadful crime of drunkenness THE SOLDIER'S SONG OF THE SWORD. WEARY, and wounded, and worn, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, The dead and the dying alone Could their presence and pity afford, "Fight! fight! fight! Though a thousand fathers die; Though thousands of children cry; THE SOLDIERS SONG OF THE SWORD. Fight! fight! fight! Whilst mothers and wives lament; Whilst millions of money are spent. Fight! fight! fight! Should the cause be foul or fair; Though all that's gained be an empty name, And a tax too great to bear: An empty name, and a paltry fame, And thousands lying dead; Whilst every glorious victory May raise the price of bread. War! war! war! Fire, and famine, and sword; Desolate fields, and desolate towns, And thousands scattered abroad, With never a home, and never a shed; Whilst kingdoms perish and fall, And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, And all-for nothing at all. Ah! why should such mortals as I, Kill those whom we never could hate? 'Tis 'obey your commander or die;' 'Tis the law of the sword and the state. For we are the veriest slaves, That ever were brought unto birth; For to please the whim of a tyrant's will Is all our use upon earth. War! war! war! Ah! why have we battles at all? 'Tis, Oh! that a Christian land- Should thus despise that high command- Delivered by Christ himself on earth, To 'love our neighbour as ourselves, THE SOLDIER'S SONG OF THE SWORD. War! war! war! Misery, murder, and crime, Are all the blessings I've seen in thee Crime, misery, murder, and woe: Ah! would I had known in my younger days, Ah! had I but known in my happier days- A tenth of the horrors and crime of war- I now had been joining a happy band Of wife and children dear, And had quietly died in my native land, And many a long, long day of woe, And drenching rain, and drifting snow, And bleeding wound, and piercing smart, But though, with such sorrow and woe, Ah! would it were only below That the fruits of thy curse could be found: But war! war! war! From all that I ever could see, Full many a groan, in the future world, Must be traced, I fear, to thee." Weary, and wounded, and worn- A soldier, they left, all alone and forlorn, The dead and the dying alone Could their presence and pity afford; (Oh! would that these truths were more perfectly known,) He sang the song of the sword. PACIFICUS. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. "You took me, William, when a girl, unto your home and heart, To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part; And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego, Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in woe? No; I would rather share your tear than any other's glee, For though you're nothing to the world, you're all the world TO ME. ་ You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne; And when at last relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled, There's only one return I crave, I may not need it long, And it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no wrong: I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind; But I would ask some share of hours that you on clubs bestow; Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for me; If you will read, I'll sit and work; then think when you're away; |