SELECTED VERSE.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXIX, Issue 3762, 23 March 1907, Page 4

SELECTED VERSE.

— A PRAYER. . i. others ask for greatness and for wealth, Let others pray for glory and for health ; I do not ask that they may fall Who try to crowd me to the wall I do not kneel, 0 Lord, to beg of Thee That shame may come to them that scoff at me. ix. I do not ask with upturned, pious eyes For what should be another’s lawful prize ; But give me courage, Lord, to treat My rival fairly when we meet; And let me win no comfort and no rest As long as I have failed to do my best. — S. E. Kiser. THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. “ Now I lay ” —repeat it, darling—- “ Lay me,” lisped the pretty lips Of ray daughter, kneeling, bending O’er her folded finger-tips. ‘‘ Down to sleep” ‘‘Tosleep,” she murmured, And the curly head bent low ; ‘‘l pray the Lord,” I gently added, “You can say it all, I know.” “ Pray the Lord,” the sound came faintly, Fainter still, “ My soul to keep.” Then the tired head fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered, “Mamma, God knows all the rest.” “WEE WILLIE WINKLE.” George Gilfillan declared that “Wee Willie Winkle” was the ‘ ‘ greatest nursery song in the world.” In virtue of his authorship of this and many kindred songs, William Miller, who died in 1872, earned the title of “Laueate of the Nursery.” Wee Willie Winkle Rins through the toun, Up stairs and doun stairs In his night goun. Tirlin’ at the window, Cry in’ at the lock — “ Are the weans in their bed, For its now ten o’clock ? ” “ Hey, Willie Winkle, Are you coming’ ben ? The cat’s singin’ gray thrums To the sleeping hen ; The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, And disna gie a cheep ; But here’s a waukrife laddie That winna fa’ asleep. “Onything but sleep, you rogue! Glow Tin’ like the moon, Rattlin’ in the aim jug, Wi’ an aim spoon. Rumblin’ tumblin’ round about, Crawlin’ like a cock, Skirlin’ like a kenna what, Waukenin’ sleepin’ folk. “ Hey, Willie Winkle, The wean’s in a creel ! Wamblin’ aff a body’s knee Like a very eel ; Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, Ravelin’ a’ her thrums — Hey, Willie Winkle, . See, there he comes ! ” Wearied is the mither, That has a stoorie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, That canna’ rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi’ sleep Before he’ll close an e’e— But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips Gies strength anew to me.