JEANIE MORRISON. O DEAR, dear Jeanie Morrison, And blind my een wi' tears! The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time!-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas 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, What our wee heads could think! When baith bent down ower ae braid page Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said, We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud The throssil whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wud, We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? Hid them in some flowery cave, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere! So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. MILTON. HARK! HARK! THE LARK. HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin SHAKSPEARE. THE BUGLE-SONG. THE splendor falls on castle walls And the wild cataract leaps in Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. COME to the river's reedy shore, There, dancing on the rippling wave, And jealous flowers, as thou goest by, Unclose their dewy eyes. As slowly down the stream we glide, The lilies all unfold Their leaves, less rosy white than thou, And virgin hearts of gold; F. B. SANBORN. SONG FROM JASON. I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering. And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before. There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, The shore no ship has ever seen, For which I cry both day and night, Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS. OF A' THE AIRTS. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw There wild woods grow, and rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair, I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air: |