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OLD SIR JAMES.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Quivered with the rising gale,

Yet the ship went plunging onward,

Groaning with her press of sail.

And they still kept beating northward,

While gaunt icebergs drifted by;

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Rarely sun at early daybreak

Lighted up this dreary sky.

But his cheery voice yet murmured,

Though his breath came long and hard, -

"Courage, sailors, steady, skipper,

Two points north, brace every yard."

All at once a distant signal

Boomed across the raging main;

And the dreamer caught its echo,

Flung the shutters back again.

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