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0, SAW YE BOXNIE LESLEY !

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.

0, saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border ! She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

ROBERT BURNS.

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!

LOVE'S MEMORY.

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

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

The hearts o' men adore thee.

FROM “ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." 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. 'T was pretty, though a plaguer To see him ev'ry 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.

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.

SHAKESPEARE.

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THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW.

JEANIE MORRISON.

The sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening's deepest glow,

Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care

From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair

Each to the loved one's side.

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!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en

May weel be black gin Yule ;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart

Where first fond luve grows cule.

The noble dame on turret high,

Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy

The flash of armor bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow

The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart,
And to the thicket wanders slow

The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side

Twitters his closing song,
All meet whom day and care divide,

But Leonard tarries long !

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path,

And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,

And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel,

'T was then we twa did part ; Sweet time -- sad time ! twa bairns at scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart !

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed,

Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,

What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As
ye

hae been to me?
0, 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 die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygone days and me!

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said

We cleeked thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, –

The broomy braes o' June ?

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

My head rins round and round about, –

My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back

0' scule-time, and othee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve !

O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts

Like simmer blossoms sprang !

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0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its waters croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet ;

THERE lived a singer in France of old

By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,

And praised God, seeing; and so died he.
Died, praising God for his gift and grace :

For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, “Live”; and her tears were shed on his face

Or ever the life in his face was shed. The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space ;

And so drew back, and the man was dead.

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 dow-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 !

O brother, the gods were good to you.

Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through ;

Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ; Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,

Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING

Rest, and be glad of the gods ; but I,

How shall I praise them, or how take rest ! There is not room under all the sky

For me that know not of worst or best, Dream or desire of the days before, Sweet things or bitterness, any more. Love will not come to me now though I die,

As love came close to you, breast to breast.

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!

I shall never be friends again with roses ;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown

strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,

As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire ; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ;

I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.

The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The heavens that murmur, the sounds that

shine, 'The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,

The music burning at heart like wine,
An armed archangel whose hands raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup,
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder,

These things are over, and no more mine.

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 BROOKS

These were a part of the playing I heard

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,

The wine and leaven of lovely life.

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me

ANONYMOUS.

Willie, all to you and me

How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow Is that spot, whate'er it be,

stronger, Where he stands no other word

As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! Slands - God sure the child's prayers heard — How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer ! Near the Alma River.

Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still? Willie, listen to the bells

Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth Ringing in the town to-day ; That 's for victory. No knell swells

Gazeth through tears that makeitssplendor dull; For the many swept away,

For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,

My cup of happiness is all too full. We, who need not, -just to keep

Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again ;

Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Till the third dread morning tell

Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and Who they were that fought and fell

swelling,

Flies to its haven of securest rest !
By the Alma River.
Come, – we'll lay us down, my child ;

Poor the bed is, — poor and hard ;
But thy father, far exiled,

ABSENCE.
Sleeps upon

the
open sward,

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours Dreaming of us two at home;

That must be counted ere I see thy face? Or, beneath the starry dome,

How shall I charm the interval that lowers Digs out trenches in the dark,

Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Where he buries — Willie, mark ! Where he buries those who died

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Fighting — fighting at his side

Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away
By the Alma River.

Into past days, and with some fond pretence Willie, Willie, go to sleep ;

Cheat myself to forget the present day? God will help us, O my boy!

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin He will make the dull hours creep

Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Faster, and send news of joy ;

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, When I need not shrink to meet

Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare

O, how or by what means may I contrive In some eyes — child, say that prayer

To bring the hour that brings thee back moro Once again, - a different one,

near ? Say, “() God! Thy will be done

How may I teach my drooping hope to live By the Alma River."

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 THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.

While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.

Allheavenward flights, all high and holy strains; 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee,

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Gently compel and hasten thy return !

Through these long hours, nor call their min. Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy utes pains. staying,

I will this dreary blank of absence make Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends,

A noble task-time ; and will therein strive though dear,

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake Compensate for the grief thy long delaying

More good than I have won since yet I live. Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?

So may this doomed time build up in me Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; So may my love and longing hallowed be, When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,

And thy dear thought an influence divine. And silence hangs on all things like a spell !

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLB

DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

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FROM MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."

FOR aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth :
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgraffed in respect of years;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

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But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to

sea;

And the croun and the pund were baith for me!

He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was
stown awa;

My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the

sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.

My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin ;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win;

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,

Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie

dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair, my mother didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ;

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, I'm come back for to marry thee!"

66

ROBERT BURNS.

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

hame,

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD

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