Stories for standard i (-vi).

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Página 93 - Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ) Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
Página 90 - A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray : Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever One grand, sweet song.
Página 73 - THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him : His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. — " Land of song !" said the warrior-bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, " One sword, at least thy rights shall guard, " One faithful harp shall praise thee...
Página 31 - Monday's child is fair of face/ Tuesday's child is full of grace/ Wednesday's child is full of woe/ Thursday's child has far to go...
Página 17 - MARY ! go and call the cattle home, — And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! " The Western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.
Página 97 - THE bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; And she that doth most sweetly sing, Sings in the shade when all things rest : — In lark and nightingale we see, What honour hath humility. When Mary chose the better part, She meekly sat at Jesus...
Página 105 - ... for want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost...
Página 116 - HOW fair is the rose ! What a beautiful flower ! The glory of April and May ; But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day.
Página 116 - And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field: When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
Página 17 - The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. " Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?

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