THE IRISH REFUGEE.
The only son of his mother, and she was a widow.—Luke vii. 12.
| Long years shall see thee roaming A sad and weary way, Like traveler tired at gloaming Of a sultry summer day. But soon a home will greet thee, Though low its portals be, And ready kinsmen meet thee, And peace that will not flee.—Percival. |
It was a lovely morning, that last Saturday in July, 1849. The sun had not yet risen when our family party, consisting of Aunt and Uncle Clive, Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an early breakfast-table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents for country cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, to spend the month of August. We, a merry set of grown-up children, were too delighted with our prospective pleasure to eat anything, and so we soon left the table and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatory to a start. We entered the carriage.
"Now, then, are we all ready?" asked Uncle Clive.
"Yes," replied aunt.
"Has nothing been forgotten?"
"No—but stay! Where is Cousin Peggy's cap, Chrissy?"
"There—pinned up in that paper to the roof of the carriage. Don't hit your head against it, uncle."