And yet, my little squirrel,
      Your taste is not so bad;
    You’ve swallowed Caird completely
      And psychologic Ladd. 
    Rosmini you’ve digested,
      And Kant in rags you’ve clad.

    Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! 
      Lay all the sages low! 
    My pretty lace and ribbons,
      They’re yours for weal or woe! 
    My pocket-book’s in tatters
      Because you like it so.

MARY E. BURT.

 WARREN’S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.

There is never a boy who objects to learning “Warren’s Address,” by John Pierpont (1785-1866).  To stand by one’s own rights is inherent in every true American.  This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns’s “Bannockburn.” (1785-1866.)

    Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! 
    Will ye give it up to slaves? 
    Will ye look for greener graves? 
      Hope ye mercy still? 
    What’s the mercy despots feel? 
    Hear it in that battle-peal! 
    Read it on yon bristling steel! 
      Ask it,—­ye who will.

    Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
    Will ye to your homes retire? 
    Look behind you! they’re afire! 
      And, before you, see
    Who have done it!—­From the vale
    On they come!—­And will ye quail?—­
    Leaden rain and iron hail
      Let their welcome be!

    In the God of battles trust! 
    Die we may,—­and die we must;
    But, O, where can dust to dust
      Be consigned so well,
    As where Heaven its dews shall shed
    On the martyred patriot’s bed,
    And the rocks shall raise their head,
      Of his deeds to tell!

JOHN PIERPONT.

 THE SONG IN CAMP.

“The Song in Camp” is Bayard Taylor’s best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned.  It is a most valuable poem.  I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon.  Since then “Annie
 Laurie” has become the song of the Labour party.  “The Song in Camp” voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.)

   “Give us a song!” the soldiers cried,
      The outer trenches guarding,
    When the heated guns of the camps allied
      Grew weary of bombarding.

    The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
      Lay, grim and threatening, under;
    And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
      No longer belched its thunder.

    There was a pause.  A guardsman said,
     “We storm the forts to-morrow;
    Sing while we may, another day
      Will bring enough of sorrow.”

    They lay along the battery’s side,
      Below the smoking cannon: 
    Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
      And from the banks of Shannon.

    They sang of love, and not of fame;
      Forgot was Britain’s glory: 
    Each heart recalled a different name,
      But all sang “Annie Laurie.”