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Show T The Bye-Bye Chair i Tho rclsn o' dad Is tho dusky reign; mother may hold tho throno All tlio day. but, tea nway, daddy comes Into his own. Olio, tlien, crown o' tho tnsscled cap, robo o' the dressing fiownl I'm klntc at night by hone.it right, though a slave to trndo down-town. What news Is this by Courier Cat? Ono marchlnB to destroy? Invasion led by ono o' rank by Emperor Illlly-boy7 Again 'tli proved my kingly crown Is parlous thing to wear. Hero's slrgo and scaling, rout and sack of Fortress liasy Chair. And now, retreatl My kingly rusel Tho sofa citadel. What? Mined beneath? Then up, white ring! To kingly hopes fnrowell! Hold, O bombnrdlng cushion host, I yield to pulssnnt' Hill. Tho emperor has won to-night! I llvo to do hli will. Tho victor's terms? Nor harsh aro they! a kiss, a toss or two. My tyrnnt. these I gladly yield to such a lord as you. Now, crib! What, no? Your mother's arms7 1 grant thn boon with Joy. Ho, up tho stair! Good ueen, prepare! Hero's Kmpcror Hilly-boy. May I sit down In Slumber-town and listen lis-ten to tho tunes That mother voice In cadence soft and tender ncccnts croons7 Let me sit down In this dear realm whose throno Is built so fair The throne no man may o'er dispute a mother's Ilye-Dye Chair. I'm hungry for tho quaint old songs, old lullabies, my dearl Tho Now Is dim, the Then shines clear as I nm list'nlng here. I feel tho clasp of mother arms come round me In the gloom, I seem to hear another volco within this hallowed room. The thrill of old-time melodies Is In that mystic sound, The sanctity of old-time lovo encom- posseth me round. Tho World at times has beat mo back In battles I havo fought. Not always has tho god Success touched tasks In which I wrought; Full oft hns Fortune dealt a blow Instead of bent to bless, And heartache followed closo upon the heels of happiness. Dut often when n solemn song of woo my heart Intoned. And often when the spirit writhed and all my nature gTonned, Then stolo refrain thnt softened pain. not phrased by mortal tongue. Vto wyt yt vum A Hut born of mcm'rles old nnd sweet tho songs my mother sung When In tho dusk sho held mo close and gently stroked my hair, And bore me with her down to Sleep In that old Uye-Ilye Chair. My boyhood's friend went wrong to-day; the same old story, denrl Temptation, yielding, sin nnd fall. And thoughtless worldlings sneer! But I who sit here by your side and hear you sing to-night, And gazo behind me on tho years with love nnd faith alight, I do not pride my falt'rlng feet upon the rnco they've made, Hut search my henrt and bless the part that mother love has played. I know he lacked tho mother hands that fondly press nnd mold, I know he lacked tho mother smile that turns tho dross to gold; And at the cross-roads where tho tracks of Illght nnd Wrong are dim Thero wns no shining mother light to point the way to him. Tho callous cynics of tho world gage sin by whnt Is done, Dut I can measure life by lovo of mother to her son; And Cod. who knows tho human heart, lias mercy, dear, to spare To him whoie soul-strength wns not won In mother's Hye-Byo Chair. Sleep, little boy my nilly-boy! The World is Just outsldo. It docs not tight tho pillow fight; 'tis stern in wrath and pride. Its blows ore blows that shiver strength; It smiles to see a fall; It does not pity Idle tears nor heed a craven's call. Yet victory Is not to him who wantonly gives pain. Who wrests their weapons from the weak and tramples on tho slnln. For chivalry, it Is not dead, nor honor but a name, And bitter scorn bo meed of him who brings his mother shame. Yet he who, luirklng back to youth, goes forth nnd nobly tries To color llfo to match tho light that shines from mother's eyes. And he who with his earnest faith his after life attunes To thoso old songs of honest lovo his mother softly croons, May walk adown tho ways of Life, and In his dally prayer Thank God thnt all his best was born In that old Uye-Ilyo Choir. Ilolman Day In Pearson's for December. |