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O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may

Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.

O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay,
In cottage, bught, or penn!
An' weel befa' the bonny May
That wons in yonder glen!

Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel,
Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Amang sae mony men!
O, weel befa' the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Alang the gloaming lea;

'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note

Come pealing frae the tree;

O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.

To see the lambkin's lightsome race,
The dappled kid in wanton chase,
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in his flowery den;

But sweeter far the bonny face
That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no' been for the blush
O' maiden's virgin flame,

Dear Beauty never had been known,

An' never had a name;

But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modelled by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;

But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!

There's beauty in the violet's vest,
There's hinny in the haw;

There's dew within the rose's breast,

The sweetest o' them a';

The sun will rise and set again,

An' lace wi' burning gowd the main,
The rainbow bend out-ower the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;

But lovelier far the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

JAMES HOGG.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

Like snaw in a thaw, Jean;

I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean; There's neither cauld nor care, Jean; The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean;

Your task's ended now, Jean;
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean!
My soul langs to be free, Jean;
And angels wait on me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,

She was baith gude and fair, Jean;

And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal!

But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean,

And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean:

The joy that's aye to last,

In the Land o' the Leal.

THE THREE SONS.

A' our friends are gane, Jean ;
We've lang been left alane, Jean;
We'll a' meet again

In the Land o' the Leal.

Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean!
This world's care is vain, Jean;

We'll meet, and ay' be fain,

In the Land o' the Leal.

CAROLINE, LADY NAIRN.

THE THREE SONS.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave, and wise of heart, beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be: I know his face is fair;

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air.

I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me;

But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency.

But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

THE THREE SONS.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to pray; And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he

will say.

O, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee.
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling;
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love;
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given;
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,

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