Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness, He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, He fought at Cremona, she hears of his story; Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted, Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, parted; I feel I am alone. She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away, I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him : I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears! "Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, And O, pray, too, for me! WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE students were travelling over the Rhine; They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign; "Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? And where is that dear little daughter of thine?" "My beer and wine are fresh and clear; The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised, The second he slowly put back the shroud, The third he once more uplifted the veil, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Was my sweet Highland Mary. That nipt my flower sae early! Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, ROBERT BURNS. THY BRAES WERE BONNY. THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should nevermore behold him! "But Willie's gone, whom I thought on, "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, "O, came ye by yon water-side? She sought him up, she sought him down, Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow! MARY'S DREAM. ANONYMOUS. THE moon had climbed the highest hill Her silver light on tower and tree, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. "Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! "O maiden dear, thyself prepare ; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" JOHN LOWR There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; ROBERT BROWNING. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary; And the corn is green again; 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, |