I LOVE MY JEAN.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill 's between ;

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air;

There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;

There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

The points of the compass.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM "ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, ACT 1. SC. 1.

I AM undone there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. "Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, - heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY!

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her forever;
For nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee !" The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!

• Harm.

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE
TOWN.

O, WAD that my time were owre but,
Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,

I' the bonnie birken shaw!

For this is no my ain life,

And I peak and pine away

Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, In the glad green month of May.

O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

thee:

Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return!

Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,

Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

though dear,

Compensate for the grief thy long delaying

Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?

Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell ; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell!

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomèd time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.
DAY, in melting purple dying;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure ;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;

Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me !
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!
MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery e'e?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?

When thou art far awa',

Thou 'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,

Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there :

Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca 't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied,

And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide.

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee;

And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE.

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my

breast:

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 't was the Spring; but alas! it was
she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart - I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes

play,

And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head.

But now, when he 's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook :

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,

Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion re-

move;

But what swain is so silly to live without love!
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.

Tray

Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!

What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,

The cornfields and hedges and everything made! But now she has left me, though all are still there,

They none of them now so delightful appear: "T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.

But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for- -a place in her

breast?

You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return,

While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn!

Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst

say.

JOHN BYROM.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.*

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there 's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's-satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockin's pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Bartlett, in his Familiar Quotations, has the following: "The Mariner's Wife is now given, by common consent,' says Sarah Tytler, to Jean Adam, 1710-1765."