POETRY.
FROM HEINE.
KIND, Wilt WAREN KINDER."
My child, we then were children, Two children little and gay ; To the fowl-house we went creeping, And hid ourselves under the hay.
The crowing cocks we mimicked, And when the folks went by, 4 Cock-a-doodle 1'—they fancied 'Twas really a •cock's own cry.
We took the chests in our courtyard, We papered them all with care, And there we dwelt together, And made them a mansion rare.
The old cat of our neighbour Would visit us oft as a friend ; We made her bows and curtseys, And compliments without end.
Friendly and anxious inquiries On her health were part of our game ; To many old cats, in like manner, Since then we have made the same.
We sat often and talked together, Like our elders, with sober tongue,
And complained how all things were better
In the days when we were young I How love, and faith, and honour Had vanish'd—we knew not where,— Row coffee had grown expensive, And money so sadly rare.
Those games are past, and all things The rolling years remove,— Money, the world, and the ages,
And loyalty, faith, and love J. II. IL
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