And see the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green; Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks- Now lightsome o'er the level mead, For see the rosy May draws nigh, Anne Hunter.* Born 1742. Died 1821. INDIAN DEATH SONG. THE sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, * Mrs. Hunter was the wife of John Hunter, the celebrated anatomist; her maiden name was Home. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain? No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, But the son of Alknomook can never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone ; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes like a friend, to relieve me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorned to complain! Edwin Waugh. Born 1819. COME WHOAM TO THY CHILDER Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob; Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob, Aw've brought thi top-cwot, does ta know, For th' rain's comin' deawn very dree; An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow; Come whoam to thi childer an' me. When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer, So, aw kissed th' little thing, an' aw said Tha'ed bring her a ribbon fro th' fair; An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark wi’him, He said, when he're sayin' his prayers: "Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad?" An' he cried whol his e'en were quite red ;He likes thee some weel, does yon lad! ; At th' lung-length, aw geet 'em laid still An' aw hearken't folk's feet at went by; So aw iron't o' my clooas reet weel, An' aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry; When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer, An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt,— “Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick; Aw’ve a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal; An' some 'bacco an' pipes for mysel; "God bless tho, mo lass; aw'll go whoam, An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' childer o' reawnd; Thae knows, at wheerever aw roam, Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd greawnd; Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass; Aw can do wi' a bit ov a spree; But aw've no gradely comfort, mo lass, Except wi' Alexander Smith. Born 1830. LADY BARBARA. EARL GAWAIN Wooed the Lady Barbara,- With calm and steady eyes, her heart was otherwhere. ; He sighed for her through all the summer weeks Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke: : |