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 12 3 
 
 1 
 
 6 
 
THE 
 
 I?(n)S^]BIWM(0)IDr§ WOIBIEi 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 GEORGE MENZIES, 
 
 BEING A COLLECTION OP 
 
 POEMS, SONNETS, &c., &c. 
 
 WRITTEN AT VARIOUS TIMES 
 
 WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS CONNECTED 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 ipm,(^'jii'^mAm li^mmm^ 
 
 WOODSTOCK: 
 PRINTED BY JOHN DOUGLASS. 
 
 1850. 
 
THE MOTHER: 
 
 IN THREE SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The young glad mother clasps her infant bof 
 
 With speechless, breathless passion. O, how sweet 
 that hour 
 Of mute entrancement !— Sacred is the joy 
 
 That sheds a halo round the first born flower 
 Of wedded love ! Her soul's warm feelings gusli 
 
 In one full tide of blessings on his head — 
 Deep, fathomless, and agonizing is the rush 
 
 Of woman's dearest hopes concentrated 
 Round her fair child ! No chilling thought of earth 
 
 Is there— to bow her buoyant spirit down— 
 For she hath given a deathless being birth : 
 
 An heir of hope— a baby of her own. 
 O ! who can scan the mystery of bliss, 
 
 In which is shrined the first maternal kiss ? 
 
 II. 
 The curtained window, and the noiseless tread 
 
 Of the sad wife— her very breathing hushed 
 To painfulnesr— her babies, around that bed, 
 
 With hearts that sob to breaking— faces flushed 
 With tears of anguish— 'tis a scene of dread, 
 
 And terrible probation. All her soul is crushed 
 With agony's unutterable thrill, 
 
 As on that dear one's »ale and niil«:^l.»cc Kr«,.r 
 .She lays her hand, and feels its deadly chill, 
 
'Tis too, too much — a spell is on her now-— 
 8he speaks not — weeps not— clings more closely still: 
 
 Love's first sweet moment, wedlock's holy vow, 
 And years and years of past endearment pour 
 
 A thousand memories on that startling hour ! 
 
 III. 
 Years have gone by— to that fair boy, glad years 
 Of spirits unrebuked and tameless glee ; 
 
 Her cheek, once bright, is tracked with widow's tears 
 
 And all her hopes of earthly joy, to be, 
 Are chilled and blighted now ; and all her fears 
 
 Are with a reckless wanderer of the sea, 
 Whose homeless steps a wayward fate pursue. 
 
 Through paths by peril and by guilt beset ; 
 Wliile one fond heart, unconquerably true, 
 
 Till hope is hopeless, hopes to see him yet. 
 Of her forgetful, he is cherished still, 
 
 A bright and beauteous idol of her heart : 
 Years may not weaken— coldness cannot chill 
 
 A mother's love—'tis of her soul a part ! 
 
 GRAVES. 
 
 Go to the graves, and ask of them 
 How notelessly have fled. 
 
 The years s© full of life to thee, 
 O'er their forgotten dead ! 
 
And when the chequered earthly years; 
 
 Have run their mystic race, 
 As Iiushed will be the foot of time 
 
 Above thy dwelling-place. 
 
 Go — if thy spirit fain v ould learn 
 The blessedness of prayer — 
 
 Go to the graves at even-tide, 
 And breathe thy vespers there, 
 
 O ! tread not idly on the spot 
 Where dreamless sleepers be, 
 
 The voiceless dust beneath thy feet, 
 Once waked and wept like thee. 
 
 Each relic there, howe'er minute, 
 And hid from mortal ken, 
 
 Is pregnant with a germ of life 
 That will not die again. 
 
 The grave is blessed — gentle thoughts 
 Of joys for ever fled. 
 
 Spring out amid the sunny flowers 
 
 That grow above the dead. 
 
 And stricken hearts m^ gather hopes, 
 
 Amid the grass that waves 
 O'er buried ones, of meetinor them 
 
Again beyond the graves. 
 
 The grare is sacred — for the dust 
 
 Within its dark abode, 
 Renascent yet, shall walk in all 
 
 The glorious light of God. 
 
 The grave is holy — know ye not. 
 That He who came to save 
 
 The dying from the power of death, 
 Once slumbered in the grave. 
 
 To Him who owned that earthly grave. 
 
 The victory was given ; 
 And hopes are clustering round it now, 
 
 That link the sou! with Heaven. 
 
 li 
 
 JESUS WEPT. 
 
 »> 
 
 Martha of Bethany, weep not for him ; 
 
 Though severed for aye from his sister and thee 
 —He hath gone to his home with the bright seraphim, 
 
 O ! reck not the ban of the dark Saducee, 
 
 Mary of Bethany, loved of the Lord, 
 The Mighty to save and the Strong to deliver 
 
 —A well-spring of life at Immanuel's word, 
 .'" ■ ' .r"^i"6i> oriwara for ever anu ever. 
 
Sisters of Bethany, why ghould ye weep ! 
 
 Faith is wreathing a garland of life for your d«ad ; 
 But O! ere he wake from his slumber so deep, 
 
 There are purer and holier tears to be shed. 
 
 Mourners of Bethany, marked ye that sigh, 
 
 By the lone "Man of Sorrows" in bitterness heaTed, 
 
 And saw ye that tear in Imnianuers eye 
 
 For the dead, the beloved, the sad, the bereaved ? 
 
 Doubters of Bethany, heard ye that prayer 
 
 By the meek and the lowly of Bethlehem spoken ? 
 
 O! say was there nought but humanity there, 
 When the spell that had bound the departed was 
 broken. 
 
 Believer of Bethany, wake from the grave ; 
 
 'Tis the jubilee note of salvation to thee ; 
 The despised, the rejected, is mighty to save 
 
 Hosannah for ever— the captive is free ! 
 
 JESUS SAITH UNTO HER, MART. 
 
 There is a voice, though kindly meant, 
 
 That yet is cold and tame, 
 Unless among its words we hear 
 
 Our own familiar name. 
 
 The name in sadness spoken, 
 
Thrills ihc bo.soni's riee[)est chord, 
 And in tcnfJerncds pronounced, His 
 Affection's dearest word. 
 
 That name when uttered wisely, 
 
 Is omnipotent to win 
 Our wandering feet from out the ways 
 
 Of sorrow and of sin. 
 
 For never was there warning, said 
 
 In other word tkat came 
 Solemnly as that which speaks 
 
 Our own familiar name. 
 
 j'^i^ 
 
 Tis whispered in the hour of dreams, 
 
 when friends are far apart, 
 Restoring home and gladness 
 To the worn and weary heart. 
 
 ••Why weepest thou?" the Master said 
 
 In unremembered speech, 
 The mourner's heart v, as deeplier smit, 
 
 Than stranger voice might reach. 
 
 *'Mary?" he said, that well known voice, 
 That gentle household word, 
 
 Waked the glad recognition 
 Of her Saviour and her Lord. 
 
*♦ Mary !" — it was a spell to «tlr 
 
 Umitterable feelings ; 
 And hope and joy came rushing back, 
 
 With all their bri- ht reveali.Jijs. 
 
 A U R E A M . 
 
 1 dreamed a wondrous dream, methought, 
 
 f wandered out afar 
 Through yonder azure heaven, and sought 
 
 Home Oiiier brighter star. 
 
 I journeyM on and journeyM through 
 
 Full many a world above, 
 And met with Spirits bright and true 
 
 Onee objects of my lore. 
 
 I walked from world to world to find 
 
 One brighter than another ; 
 But still the dream was on my mind — 
 
 Where shall I find my Mother ? 
 
 1 searched among these glorious things 
 
 Around and everywhere; 
 They told me I must plume my wings, 
 
 Because she was not there. 
 
 i tlew and flew, I know not well 
 How very, very far ; 
 
H I" 
 
 At length where higher Spirits dwell 
 I found my Mother's star. 
 
 I greeted her who gave me birth ; 
 
 She beckoned me away, 
 And told me to go back to earth— 
 
 For I must learn to pray. 
 
 ON SNUFFING THE CANDLE OUT. 
 
 f I 
 
 I reck not of the world that snufi— 
 'Tis all the same to me ; 
 
 For I am sure to get enough 
 Where'er my home may be. 
 
 What is there in the world that I 
 Should care a snuff shout it, 
 
 When line on line says I must die. 
 And then live aye witl.out it ? 
 
 If I should lack a jot of all 
 
 The little all I crave, 
 And fall me short of shroud or pall, 
 
 I'm sure to find a grave. 
 
 What should I rock for sun or star, 
 
 Or of the radicnt moon, 
 When I must soar or sink so far 
 
 jleyond thoiv light so soon, 
 
 # 
 
11 
 
 1 care not how much weal or woo 
 
 To me in life be given, 
 Provided 1 have leave to go 
 
 At death to life in heaven. 
 
 THE PARISH CHURCH. 
 
 Mine own beloved Zion, built upon, 
 The Eternal Rock of Ages ! wheresoe'er 
 1 roam, the blessed Sabbath memory 
 Of the old Parish Church is with me still— ^ 
 The holiest link that binds me to ray home. 
 Peace be within thy walls, prosperity within 
 Thy palaces. Oh ! if a day should come, 
 In which my country owns no Parish Church, 
 How dim will be her gold ! — her most line gold, 
 Alas ! how changed ! Then Ichabod will be 
 The epitaph inscribed upon her tomb, 
 And she will be a hissing and reproach, 
 Like other lands that have preceded her, 
 In this the Modern Reformation ! 
 
 God hath stamped his seal upon the martyr-blood 
 That yet is on her pillars, as a sign 
 
 For the Destroying Angel to pass by, 
 
 And leave unscathed the Holy Parish Church. 
 
 Albeit the broad Atlantic intervenes, 
 Mine own old Parish Church is ^'ividlv 
 

 72 
 
 l3tforc me ; and a thousand njcinories 
 Of sunny Sabbath-days are on my heart. 
 Methinks I hear the grey-haired man of God, 
 Whom I regarded as a father—well I might— 
 Uttering, in deep and solemn earnestness, 
 The promise and the prophet-warning to his flock 
 1 pause, from more beiitting thoughts, to trace 
 Again my own initials rudely notched, 
 Long years ago, upon the ''Bible-board ;" 
 The old familiar faces are around ; 
 And I am seated in my own old pew. 
 Beside the young, the beautiful the dear. 
 Along the board i.s ranged a row of books, 
 With here a faded rose, and there 
 A sprig of fragrant thyme or southern wood, 
 Between the leaves, to mark the preacher's text. 
 
 Within that Church, ^he name I since have borne, 
 Before unheard beyond the household hearth. 
 Was lirst revealed amid the holy words 
 Of the Baptismal rite- the sprinkling hand 
 l^ong, long ago haul mouldered into dust; 
 And the first voice that breathed a prayer'for me, 
 
 (l^xcept a mother's and a father's prayer,) 
 
 Hath joined the diapason of the just. 
 
 Made perfect, near the throne of God 
 
 Within that Church, it was with fear 
 
 And tremblinff that I fir.f ..,,«-^».k^,i 
 
13 
 
 The Table of the Lord. While ia my hand 
 
 I held the symbols of the sacrifice, 
 
 And touched the chalice with a quivering lip, 
 
 I felt upon my soul the awful vow 
 
 Then registered in heaven — but, ah J too oft 
 
 Forgotten since, though since repeated oft. 
 
 The Parish Church !~Behold its ancient spire 
 Peeping forth from the tall ancestral elms, 
 Beneath whose shade thousands are sleeping vvell, 
 In undistinguished and forgotten greves ; 
 While here and there are old grey stones inscribed 
 With quaint memorials — images of Deaths 
 Time with his sandless hour-glass and his scythe, 
 And legends of high hopes for ever crushed, 
 'Of young loves blighted, and of elder ties 
 Dissolved, not broken— Scripture texts. 
 Old epitaphs, and rudely chisselled rhymes. ' 
 
 The Parish Church !— A blood-sealed Covenant 
 Is written on her tablets ; and the gates 
 Of Hell shall not prevail against her. There 
 
 She stands in her omnipotence ; and here 
 
 Even here—in the deep forest-wilderness. 
 She hath a voice that speaketh peace on earth. 
 And good will unto men. Oh ! Jet my tongue 
 Cleave to my mouth, and let my right hand lose 
 Its cunning, if I e'er forget my own 
 Old Scotland, and her Parish Church I 
 
II f 
 
 14 
 Ox\ THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Another year hath gone to join 
 
 The days of other years— 
 To give its blotted reckoning in 
 
 Of travail and of tears. 
 
 'Tis gone with ail its change and chance. 
 
 Its struggle and its strife- 
 No more to grieve or gladden hearts 
 
 That yet are full of life. 
 
 Like this-like me-~it had a youth 
 Ofhope and joyance once; 
 
 But Oh! the blighting touch of change 
 Hath come upon it since. 
 
 How many that were gayest then- 
 Most beautiful and dear, 
 
 Now slumber in the sunless grave 
 With the departed year ! 
 
 A spell was on it then, but now 
 
 That spell is all dissolved— 
 Its tale is told— a tale it was, 
 
 Of mystery yet unsolved. 
 
 Aye— of deep mystery was tlic tnJt 
 
 Of the departed year— 
 A sybil tale of prophecies 
 
 -= iuun-iug ana 01 lear. 
 
15 
 
 Tlie living worJd from East to West, 
 (Whoe'er hath eyes to mark) 
 
 Rocks as upon the treacherous sea, 
 Rocks the becalmed bark. 
 
 Change is the Monarch of the worlJ, 
 And he hath come to reign — 
 
 A shadowy smiter of the earth — 
 Till he be changed again. 
 
 There is a quivering of the heart, 
 
 A fever in the blood 
 Of social life — and other change 
 
 Is coming like a flood. 
 
 'Tis coming ; and we cannot stay 
 
 Its majesty and might, 
 Whatever its millennium hnng 
 
 Of darkness or of light. 
 
 Oh ! what a sleepless thing it is. 
 This breathing world of ' urs — 
 
 Man would not rest, although his bed 
 Were one of Eden-fiowers. 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 What is the story of the years, 
 That have forever past ? 
 
 A pilf> nf crnvffa t* Tt^na /^T KsUa^ 
 
 To people graves at last. 
 
1 1 ' 
 
 >i 
 
 ! ii 
 
 i ii 
 'iil 
 
 , i 
 
 ,t 
 
 What are past years bot broken links 
 
 or an unending chain ? 
 Whose fragments men would gather up- 
 
 But gather all in vain. 
 
 Some labour, think, and suffer much 
 
 To win a deathless name ; 
 But years will crumble down on years, 
 
 To make a grave for fame. 
 
 Oh ! if no more enduring thing 
 
 Tnan year succeeding year. 
 Be ours in life's vast wilderness, 
 
 We have no business here. 
 
 Say, were those earthly years to man 
 
 For useless purpose given ? 
 Oh no ! they are the ladder steps 
 
 That lead him up to heaven. 
 
 Flowers cling around those ladder-steps, 
 
 And stars are bright above ; 
 And God, who measures out our years, 
 
 Is alia God of love. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE 
 
 There is a grave— a nameless one, 
 Beyond the pathless sea ; 
 
 And Oh ! that little lowly spot 
 Is brighter unto me, 
 
17 
 
 Than all the world of beaullous ihiiiffs, 
 In vain around me spread — 
 
 'Tis better that the lonely one 
 Should linger with the dead. 
 
 The livinj^ and the beautiful 
 
 May charm a little space, 
 But the dead are ours for ever, 
 
 And their home our dwelling place — 
 
 The dead, they slumber long and well, 
 And the living, from the grave, 
 
 May cull as sweet a fancy-flower 
 As gladness ever gave. 
 
 Would that my path were once again, 
 
 Upon the aleepless sea, 
 With swelling sails, my native land, 
 
 To bear me on to thee. 
 
 What is there in my native land, 
 To wile my footsteps thither? 
 
 There is no blossom in its bowers, 
 That is not doomed to wither. 
 
 My hopes that once were brightest there, 
 
 Have perished long ago, 
 And I have been a pilgrim since — 
 
 A vvauderci to and fro. 
 
is 
 
 :i; 
 
 A 
 
 .' in 
 
 Hi 
 
 liul 6iil\ that l«)U'Iy gravi; n-Aniiu , 
 
 TJie iioJiest, and the last 
 0/ aJl tlie cherished memories 
 
 Tiiut consecrate ilie j)a.st. 
 
 Were I beside that grave again, 
 
 t'jihidden tearti Would start, 
 'J'o melt this' iey weariness 
 That preys upon my heart. 
 
 It was not thus in other times, 
 Wiien she who .slumbers there, 
 
 'i'hrew over me the sliield oflovJ. 
 Tiie j)anoply of ])reyer, 
 
 Not thus, whiJe she, whoever elsc^ 
 
 Were faithless or cstran^-cd, 
 ^(ill Joved me ivitli a mother's love, 
 iJnfaJtering and unehanfred. 
 
 «l.e died-and thou^^h I wept such tears 
 As man may weep but once, 
 
 'i'l.c bitter thoughts bequeatijGd me then, 
 Ueturn too (vften since. 
 
 1 laid her in that hundjie grave— 
 ^'o jfompous words were said ; 
 
 And few there were to note the tears 
 Of anguish that I shed. 
 
 ]iut M}i:sing.s and reinembranre^j 
 'I'lint lift tbr. chastened liearl 
 
11) 
 
 Abovr tlic rliilliniT inllucncn 
 That (Nirthly thought?' imparl — 
 
 These, breathing deeper holiness 
 Arourul the shrine of prviyrr — 
 
 These are the sole sad epitaph, 
 That I Jiavc written there. 
 
 S 1' A i\ Z A S . 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SEVKRi: ILLNESS. 
 
 The hcai'l Icnoweth its own bitterness;, and a sttangoi' clnih 
 ni't intermeddle with its joy. — Prov. M, iO. 
 
 Probe ye the inmost human heart, 
 
 Lay all its records bare ; 
 Stiil it hath hidden mysteries. 
 
 That show no record there. 
 
 It may be dark, it may be bright, 
 
 Still it is undefined — 
 The unlransmitted history, 
 
 Of man's immorial mind. 
 
 Scan yc all passions through and through 
 With wisdom most profound — 
 
 Each hath a deeper depth beyond 
 The deepest ye can sound. 
 
 linows he whose bread is won by toil 
 
 And 
 
 wrt with mapv ;i tear. 
 
20 
 
 Aught of the serpents that 
 The ribbon of the 
 
 'niwmc 
 
 peer ? 
 Or can the peer appreciate half 
 
 The heart-feJt thankfulness 
 Of the poor peasant\s praise to God, 
 
 That blessings are not less ? 
 
 Oh ! when the heart is crush'd and scar'd, 
 
 Who then can understand 
 The pressure of the load, or test 
 
 The fierceness of the brand ? 
 
 Can the lone watcher hy the bed 
 
 Of anguish and of pain, 
 Sen the wild chappy, or read the dreams, 
 
 That haunt the fevered brain ? 
 
 Ask not the stricken one who pines 
 Through weary watchful hours. 
 
 To list with you the hymn of birds, 
 Kejoicing in their bowers. 
 
 He knows not you, ye know not him ; 
 
 For^jGod's own linger seals 
 That strange antithesis of tnought, 
 
 Which mind from mind conceals. 
 
 All human sympathy hath bounds- 
 One stranger passing by 
 Another, knowcth not how inucb 
 
 Of 
 
 i^y 01 grief ie niffh, 
 
«1 
 
 Each heart hath its own secrets now 
 
 Of pleasure or of pain ; 
 But they shall all be yet rcveal'd, 
 
 And all to each made plain. 
 
 And when the books are opened up, 
 Disclosing^ hidden springs, 
 
 Each heart shall find itself hath been 
 One of the strangest things. 
 
 Its motives and its mysteries, 
 
 Unfell, unknown before, 
 Shall then become a source of joy 
 
 Or anguish evermore. 
 
 BRIDAL-DAY REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Why put I on thy hand that ring ?— 
 
 However dear the token 
 Of living love, the knot it ties 
 
 One day must yet be broken. 
 
 The link that joins most lovingly 
 Two loving hearts in one, 
 
 Is oft the first to snap in twain, 
 Or be by death undone. 
 
 '.. *,v'l spirit lurketh round 
 ^ liC brightest ways of life, 
 
 To fiiKl some spot whereon to ¥ow 
 Thc f'ecd* of ?>>^"t strife, 
 
^3 
 
 ' mv 
 
 Drq) Idvc may meet thi- evil thing, 
 
 And struf^glc to disarm it ; 
 Hut deepest love may not possess 
 
 SulHcient strength to charm it. 
 
 Tlic vcnomM snake will wend its way 
 Among the sweetest llowers. 
 
 And tempest-clouds will overcast 
 The bri^itest, sunniest hours. 
 
 Oh ! life hath many bitter thinjrs 
 
 To toil and travel through— 
 None else like two hearts once made one, 
 
 Made alien hearts anew. 
 
 J3ut I will not predict, my love, 
 
 Such lot for thee and me ; 
 Yet the knot now knit must be unknit, 
 
 Whatc'cr ;hc pang may be. 
 
 Let fond hearts wrap them as ihey may 
 
 With all their love about ; 
 Tht wnf-hful mf.?sjngcr of death 
 
 !« sure to find them out ; 
 
 And he will wring the life of life 
 
 From out the living heart, 
 >Vhen he pierccth through his rho??rn rmc 
 
 With ] 
 
 H5 r.ncmnir rtJirt, 
 
A briefer breath WkU tliat wliirli brentlics 
 
 Our natural con^ient 
 To be made one, will one ilay brpak 
 
 Tliis solemn covenant. 
 
 But love is an eternal thing, 
 
 However tossed and driven, 
 And maketh hcart&, once linkM on curth, 
 
 0/1 f heart again in heaven. 
 
 "ALL IS VANITY SAITH THE PRE4CHEU.'' 
 
 I love the bright green earth, I love 
 
 The ever living sea — 
 The deep blue sky, the noontide sun, 
 
 How beautiful they be ! 
 
 And Oh ! how sweet it is to li^st 
 
 The brooklet's vesper tunc. 
 And breathe the heart's idohtrv 
 
 To the pale vestal moon ! 
 
 Such was mine early phantasy — 
 
 The poetry of my heart, 
 For beauty, glory, gladness, llien 
 
 Were of my soul a part. 
 
 Days passed — I linked myself with man 
 
 And bowed to woman's sway 
 The breath of human fellowship 
 
1 1 ■: 
 
 34 
 
 Then came the long, long troubled year« 
 
 Of passion and of pride — 
 New idols charmed a little while, 
 
 And then were cast aside. 
 
 Years passed — the earth became a ircani, 
 And heaven's untrodden blue 
 
 A mirror of vague mysteries, 
 Distorted and untrue. 
 
 Years are fleet travellers, and they send 
 
 No joyous tidings back — 
 Long, selfish, stern and desolate, 
 
 Man follows in their track. 
 
 Then like a wearied child he sleeps 
 
 With the forgotten dead ; 
 And o'er his grave a few cold words 
 
 Of studied prayer are said. 
 
 All earthly things aro vanity 
 
 And weariness and pain ; 
 And man himself, the lord of all — 
 
 Alas ! how very vain ! 
 
 But lo ! the morning star of hope 
 
 Bursts the funeral gloom, 
 And (lowers of faithful »iromisc shed 
 
 A glory round the tomb, 
 
26 
 
 Tiiough time and sorrow break the speii 
 
 To earth-born fancy given 
 The grave itself may echo back 
 
 The poetry of heaven. 
 
 The earth again is redolent 
 
 Of all things fresh and fair. 
 The sea is glorious, for the power 
 
 Of God is written there. 
 
 The stars too in the unfathomed depths 
 
 Of heaven^ own solitude, 
 Commune together in the joy 
 
 Of mystic brotherhood. 
 
 And I may walk amid those stars 
 
 And wreath a diadem, 
 For truth of the undying light 
 
 Which now encircles them. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 "As it happeneth to the fool, so it liappeneth even io me, and 
 why was I there more wise 1 Then I said in my heart that tJds 
 also is vanity."— -EccLEsiASTKs. 
 
 What boots it that on seraph wings, 
 The ambitious spirit mounts the skies 
 
 And talks alone with mystic things 
 Disclosed to teleseopiteyes? 
 
26 
 
 What boots it tliat the learned pry 
 
 Among the secrets yet afar ? 
 They cannot find their way so high 
 
 As even to reach the lowest star. 
 
 The eagle's wing may cleave the clouds, 
 And float o'er mountain hill, and dale ; 
 
 But just as grand the shell that shrouds 
 The crawling melancholy snail. 
 
 Perchance that when the eagle falls 
 A victim in the fowler's snare,! 
 
 The least ambitious snail that crawls 
 May still be creeping freely there. 
 
 So with the foolish and the wise, 
 
 Just as the destiny is given ; 
 While one is creeping to the skies 
 
 The other may fall down from heaven. 
 
 What reck I of that idle thing. 
 
 Which men call wisdom here below ? 
 
 'Tis nothing but a lamp to bring 
 To light how little we can know. 
 
 Will not the foolish sleep as well 
 Beneath the rudely trodden green, 
 
 As he of whom proud mottoes tell 
 Some wisdom ^hat perhaps hath becn^ 
 
27 
 
 I would not jTrudcc an hour or twain 
 To see what I have seen, once more, 
 
 But would I wish to be again 
 
 The thing that I have been before ? 
 
 'Tis vanity what I have been, 
 And what on earth I hope to be ; 
 
 'Tis vanity that T 'iave seen, 
 And naught but vanity I see. 
 
 What need I reck to be called wise 
 Upon some monumental stone, 
 
 If 1 should see the foolish rise . 
 
 To heaven, and leave me here alone ? 
 
 Oh ! not alone but with such peers 
 As fools themselves would scorn to own- 
 
 I care not for the marble tears, 
 
 Give me the poorest beggar's throne. 
 
 TO MY VILLAGE HOME. 
 
 My Village home ! — the home of all 
 
 The best and brightest of my days, 
 Ere I beheld the shadows fall 
 
 That since have dark'ned all my ways- 
 My Village home, across the deep 
 
 And dark Atlantic's stormy wave — 
 Would lliat I ^\^i< with ih< c to w^op 
 
 AjT'^iu upon iTiy mnthfi*?? ffravr. 
 
I1 
 
 i'i 
 
 28 
 
 To wcrp upon iicr grave, and think 
 
 As he who mourns a mother should, 
 Til] on my spirit there would sink 
 
 The musings of a calmer mood : 
 And magic memory then would wreatli 
 
 Her dew-flowers round mine aching head; 
 And teach my chast'ned heart to breathe 
 
 A requiem o'er mine only dead. 
 
 Mine only dead ! Ah me ! perhaps 
 
 Some other hearts are stricken down ; 
 For well may time's minutest lapse 
 
 Suffice to wreath a cypress crown. 
 Aye — well may time and tide efface 
 
 A dream of brightest colouring. 
 And make my home a desert place, 
 
 My heart an isolated thing. 
 
 But still'd shall be the boding thought, 
 
 And hush'd the voice of shadowy fear ; 
 For fairy visions, fancy wrought, 
 
 Shall come to soothe my wanderings here. 
 My harp, that utter'd forth the praise 
 
 Of many a beauteous mountain maid, 
 iShall cheer my lonely latter days, 
 
 In this far world of sylvan shade. 
 
 There is ;i land of lake and ^jtrcam, 
 \ boiind]pss (Ippih of '•oHt\ule, 
 
20 
 
 That never wak'd potuc dream, 
 Nor echoM song however rude : 
 
 My way is through its trackless gloom, 
 Impervious erst to sound or sight, 
 
 Save savage howl, or thunder boom, 
 The meteor and the fire-fly's light. 
 
 But I will gather, as I roam. 
 
 The fairest of Hesperian flowers— 
 A. garland for my Village home, 
 
 To decorate its broom-wood bowers ; 
 And many a fair one, far away. 
 
 Perchance may yet rejoice to know 
 Some yet unsung, unfancied lay, 
 
 From him who lov'd them long ago. 
 
 And they may pause awhile to hear. 
 
 Who heard unmov'd when I was nigh- 
 Young hearts will throb, and memory's tear 
 
 Will start in many an elder eye : 
 And thoughts and feelings long forgot. 
 
 Amid the undistinguishM throng, 
 Of changes in their earthly lot. 
 
 May recognise the awakening song. 
 
 And when the tale on tardy wing. 
 Shall reach my Village home at last, 
 
 Tfiat i am a departed thinjr, 
 
 A shadowy momory of the past— 
 
ill' 
 
 I „ 
 
 36 
 
 'Twill touch a yet surviving chovi\ ; 
 
 And mine a living name may be — 
 A fondly cherish'd village word — 
 
 An era in its history. 
 
 D E A T H . 
 
 How idly and how flippantly 
 
 The name of Death is said 
 By him who never watch'd and prayed 
 
 Beside a dying bed ! 
 
 The gladsome and ihe glorious things 
 
 Of hope that cluster round 
 The path of life, a little ' hile. 
 May more and more abound. 
 
 Rut ah ! to-morrow keepeth not 
 
 The promise of to-day, 
 And man must yield his spirit back, 
 
 However fain to stay. 
 
 The strong, the weak, the wise, the fool 
 
 The despot and his slave. 
 The crested count, the peasant duirl — 
 
 All journey to the grave. 
 
 Not star-eyed beauty's i^rlf ran win 
 A ninsom fn cscapr 
 
From wedlock with the hideous worm 
 Herself a hideous shape. 
 
 One asking look, one struggle more, 
 For one more gasp of breath— 
 
 The last life-clutch forgoes its hold— 
 Oh God .'--and this is death ! 
 
 If this were all, and if there were 
 
 No spirit-life on high, 
 Oh ! then, to live were less than life, 
 'Twere more than death to dio. 
 
 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 God bless that very, very old 
 
 And solitary man, 
 Who doseth out his weary life, 
 
 Now shrunken to a span I 
 
 To him the lamp of consciousness 
 
 Is feebly burning out — 
 The flickering of an undefmed. 
 
 Unutterable doubt, 
 
 In his elbow chair he rocketh, 
 
 Like a baby, to and fro ; 
 While down his sere and sallow cheefc 
 
 Unmeaning tears do flow. 
 
 •if 
 
32 
 
 i| s 
 
 There is no light of by-gone years 
 
 Upon his shrivelled face, 
 But his glazed and sunken eye is fixed 
 
 On blank, unpeopled space. 
 
 I need not ask thee, Ancient One, 
 
 Albeit thou art the last 
 And only link connecting now 
 
 The passing with the past — 
 
 I need not ask thee to relate 
 The changes thou hast seen — 
 
 To thee all time is but a dream 
 Of something that hath been — 
 
 A dream that faintly pencill'd out 
 
 On thy time-clouded brain, 
 Imparteth neither hope nor fear, 
 
 Nor aught of joy or pain ; 
 
 But a dim and indistinct array 
 
 Of vague imaginings — 
 Thou k no west not whether they are past, 
 
 Or only passing things, 
 
 I need not ask thee of the friends 
 Thgit loved thee long agone — 
 
 Blight after blight fell on their hearts, 
 
 And smote them, one by one. 
 
1 '!■ 
 
 33 
 
 And thou urt now a lonely thino- 
 
 Meglectcd— loving not— 
 A remnant of an entity, 
 
 Forgetting and forgot. 
 
 A i^vi brief days— a very few, 
 
 Will lay thy weary head 
 Among the men of other years— 
 
 Thine own forgotten dead. 
 
 And Ihou wilt sleep as soundly there, 
 
 Asifweregiven to thee 
 A niche in the high places 
 
 Of immortal memory. 
 
 As deeply wilt thou slumber, 
 
 Nor less willingly awake. 
 When the voice of the Eternal One 
 
 That dreamless sleep shall break. 
 
 A R E \ E R I E . 
 
 Oh ! my stricken heart is yearning 
 
 To wander out afar, 
 Through yonder azure heaven to seek 
 
 Some "bright particular star"— 
 
 Some world of beauty rarer 
 Than that which gladdens; ours, 
 
 Where nu dt^adjy poison lurks among 
 J'he petals of the Uowers— 
 
SPi 
 
 ' •: 
 
 H 
 
 ' 
 
 
 I I 
 
 34 
 
 "When; Ih. wickod cease I'lonj troubling 
 
 And the wearv arc at rest," 
 Where to live is lite indeed, 
 
 And to breathe is to be blest. 
 
 Methlnks there are ten thousand worlds 
 
 Revolving in the sky 
 Beneath the more immediate glance 
 
 Of God's ou'n guardian eye ; 
 
 And I would fainly journey through 
 All these bright world's above, 
 
 In search of one whose people dwell 
 In harmony and love. 
 
 And in my search perhaps I i 'jhi 
 
 Find one designed to be 
 A refuge from the cares of earth — 
 
 A lions e for ??/,/// 1; and ?na. 
 
 I am weary of the things wit/wut, 
 
 Of sorrow and of sin, 
 And still more weary of the pangs 
 
 That these inflict within. 
 
 Then let me walk from star to star. 
 
 And while I walk between, 
 Discover what I yet may be 
 
 Uy knowing what I've bce»\< 
 

 I know not which of all those worlds 
 
 Possesses more of bliss, 
 But surely, save one wanderer, all 
 
 Have less of pain than this. 
 
 Oh ! it would hr .i irlorious ihing 
 
 To travel to and fro 
 Through all those i ' -ds. a.d .nake a choice 
 
 To which we arc to ^o. 
 
 One star in glory dilierelh 
 
 From every other star ; 
 But still a path might lie betwetui 
 
 1 he near one and the far. 
 
 That star would be my chosen one 
 
 That lighted me the path 
 To any heaven in which to iind 
 
 Those I once met in wrath — 
 
 Each having his peculiar heaven, 
 
 Where earthly quarrels cease, 
 Yet visitants at will, to meet 
 
 In separate heavens at peace. 
 
 OtJR AIN FOUK. 
 
 Our ain fouk, our ain fouk, 
 Around the household hearth--^ 
 
 Thau kindly word.'j arc underfrtood 
 And felt o'er a' the Cc.rth. 
 
 r 
 
 'iH 
 
 e 
 
 mbiii. 
 
m 
 
 1!^ * I 
 
 A solace to the Htrickcn heart, 
 
 Repose to weary feet, 
 
 And a welcome said in ony tonffuc^ 
 In illia clime is sweet. 
 
 I've been amang the /remit fouk, 
 
 And in an unCM land 
 Ha'e felt in mine the thrilling touch 
 
 O' mony a gentle hand, 
 
 I've heard the stranger breathe my name 
 
 In blessing and in prayer, 
 And kindly words frae maiden lips 
 
 Ha*e met mc ilka where. 
 
 Buw the heart's most deep and holy thochts 
 
 J^ae ither voice can reach, 
 Than the voice that breathes the music 
 
 O' our ain domestic speech. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM KEPT AT TlIK TABLE UOCE 
 NIAGARA FALLS, PURINC A THUNDER ST .-TvM, 
 
 JViaffara, Niagara, 
 
 Careering in its might — 
 The fierce and free Niagara 
 
 /Shall be my theme to nigbt. 
 
 I 
 
jamc 
 
 ochts 
 
 SIC 
 
 IBLE llOCE 
 T .?vM, 
 
 37 
 
 A glorious ihcnic, a glorious hour, 
 
 Niagara, arc minc-- 
 Ileaven's fire is on thy Hashing wave, 
 
 Its thunder blends with thine. 
 
 The clouds are bursting fearfully, 
 The rocks beneath me quiver ; 
 
 Rut thou, unscathed, art hurrying on 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 Years touch thee not, Niagara— 
 Thou art a changeless thing ; 
 
 And still the same deep roundelay 
 Thy solemn waters sinor. 
 
 For years and years upon my heart, 
 
 A sleepless passion dwelt, 
 To be where Nature*g present God. 
 
 Is most intensely felt. 
 
 This is the shrine at which the soul 
 
 Is tutored to forsfet 
 The weakness and the carthlincss 
 
 That cling around it yet. 
 
 Who that huth ever lingered here 
 
 A little hour or twain, 
 Can think as he hath thousht, or be 
 
 What he hath been airain ? 
 
 m 
 
 :"fS 
 
3S 
 
 Where'er iJie pilgrim's feet may roam, 
 
 VVhatc'cr his h^t may he, 
 'Twill still be vvi tten on his heart, 
 
 That he hath been with thee. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S ADDRP:SS TO SCOTLAxND, 
 
 My Scotland ! how that marric name 
 Wakes in my heart the patriot flame ! 
 Home of the beautiful and brave, 
 Thy gleaming lochs and woods that wave 
 Their boughs of ever-living green 
 O'er many a storied battle scene, 
 Where deeds of valour have been done, 
 And crowns and kingdoms lost and won— • 
 The shadowy glen, the sweeping straih, 
 The deep ravine, the rugged path, 
 By dizzy crag and water-fall, 
 Untrod and unapproached by all, 
 Save him whose heart may never quail 
 In peril's hour, the hardy Gael — 
 The Grampians, darkly shadowed forth, 
 Like guardian q)iriis of the North, 
 Enthroning tlieir majestic forms 
 Amid the gloom of boreal btorms— - 
 'J'hc beautiful and Eden spots 
 Around the rastles and tfie cots 
 The bonnie holmes, tho jnurmuriKg^ ,^frcnm:> 
 
39 
 
 Serene as iancy's summer dreams — 
 These are the haunts, and these the home 
 Of those I love, tvhere*er I roam. , 
 
 Where is the tameless mountaineer ? 
 The Highland maiden, once so dear ? 
 And where are the fraternal few, 
 Whose hearts, indomitably, true. 
 Twined round and round my earliest ways, 
 Nor left me when the darker day , 
 Of manhood's pride and passion came 
 To cast their shadows o'er my name ? 
 They live ; but Oh ! they live to me 
 In the far world of memory : 
 While I, through howling solitudes, 
 A mateless pilgrim of the woods, 
 W^ith hopeless heart and weary foot, 
 My onward journey prosecute. 
 It soothes my spirit yet to think, 
 That when the last remaining link 
 That binds me to the world shall burst, 
 The friends that loved me best and first, 
 May lay my not unhonoured head 
 Among mine own paternal dead. 
 
 Land of the early stricken heart, 
 Whose burning numbers yet impart 
 Undying glory to the tongue, 
 In which the illustrious Peasant suno ! 
 
 
 % 
 
 '> 
 
 S,tv 
 
 ^lii! 
 
Ill' 
 
 , 1 
 
 40 
 
 Lund oi" tiie ciadJe and ilie liiuvc 
 <Mhim whose mighty spirit ^ave 
 To many a spot, before unknown, 
 A name enduring as his own ! 
 Magician minstrel, rest thee well ; 
 Though mute thy harp, its wizard spell 
 Is o*er uncounted bosoms still. 
 To soothe, to sadden, and to thrill : 
 And through the farthest years of time, 
 To pilgrim hearts from every clime, 
 Remote and near, thy grave shall be 
 The shrine of deep idolatry. 
 
 Land of my fathers ! though the deep 
 And dark Atlantic-waters sweep 
 Round desolate and dreary isles, 
 Where summer verdure never smiles, 
 Between me and my native land, 
 There is a yet unbroken band 
 That binds my heart to thine and thee— 
 Land of immortal minstrelsy I 
 
 AN OLD BACHELOR'S MEMORY. 
 
 Oh ! is there not one memory 
 
 That will not all depart, 
 iJiit ever anon will hold 
 
 ( 
 
 ommuaioii with [hv lipnrt 
 
41 
 
 "J'hat eometh like a spirit-thing 
 From out the shadowy past. 
 
 An IriS'Spell around the path, — 
 Of present life to cast ? 
 
 Yes, yes, there is a memory 
 
 The brightest and the best. 
 More beautiful and gloriouis 
 
 By far than all the rest. 
 
 And yet this memory, all so dear. 
 
 Brings sadness with it too, 
 It tells of early withered joys. 
 
 And hopes that were untrue. 
 
 Oh ! like a bright wall flower thathloonii 
 About the ruins grey, 
 
 Is that fair memory, sweet though «ad, 
 Of young life's gladsome day ; 
 
 Or like a daisy's blossom 
 
 On some grave of other years, 
 
 That memory sheds a beauty 
 
 Where there once were bitter teari^ 
 
 That memory is one of his. 
 
 Who in new coat arrayed, 
 Went forth some fifty years atro* 
 
 To woo a pretty maid. 
 
 •^ 
 
 m 
 
 'M 
 
 ■ Ml 
 
4'^ 
 
 As oil he went his heart was full 
 
 p 
 
 I A 
 
 Ni 
 
 Of 
 
 rapture, lelt but once — 
 He would not give that star-lit hour 
 For half a century since. 
 
 As on he went, they tokl him how 
 His bran-new 'coat was spoiled ; 
 
 Yet still "in glory and in joy," 
 
 He walked and walked, and smiled. 
 
 But when he reached the love-lit bower 
 
 or his own ladv fair, 
 He found the lady, but he found 
 
 The tailor too was there. 
 
 M E E T J N G S . 
 
 A» we hasten on, and on, and on. 
 
 Away through life, and away 
 We meet with joy, and love and flowers ; 
 
 But Oh ! tiiey will not st.iy. 
 
 We meet with bright and beauteous things, 
 
 And things unholy too — 
 With faces wearing angel smiles, 
 
 And bosoms all untrue, 
 
 Among the nameless, rountlre;s rrow«l 
 
 Of unremcmbcred men. 
 We meet with those who wakcu thoi 
 
 
 That will not sleep agniij, 
 
43 
 
 We meet witli those wliosc memory, 
 Like a night-mare on our sleep 
 
 Brings with it, ever and anon, 
 A bitter curse and deep. 
 
 But one shall be the meeting vet, 
 
 And one. tlie meeting-day, 
 When the trump ofGod shall tell th« dead, 
 
 That time hath passed away. 
 
 A MONODY 
 
 The moon is suiHng "high and dry," 
 
 The wind is blowing free, 
 But both will change and change again, 
 
 Yet bring no change to me. 
 
 Time flies, and so the little Hies 
 
 Are flying all about 
 My riindle — 1 am warm within. 
 
 And have no "cold without." 
 
 They tell me that Reform is gc»(jd, 
 And maiies a garden bower — 
 
 A paradise of earth, but Oh I 
 To me it brings no flour. 
 
 I reck not of vour lovaltr, 
 
 VVliy shouhl 1 bow me down 
 Roforn a Sov.rrpir^n now redii^'^rl 
 
 I'o ic-ss than lialf-a-croicn ' 
 
 m 
 
 fM 
 
 I'll 
 
 h, 
 
 
 p, 
 
 Pi' 
 
 ll! 
 
M 
 
 1 iiiii' 
 
 14 
 
 In tinkering this "connexion'* up, 
 They'll spoil it out and in 
 
 Unless I help, but Oh ! 1 can't, 
 Because I have no tin. 
 
 I think in spending nnoney free 
 There is a deal of sense : 
 
 But I'm weary of this weary world, 
 Because of the Ex-pence. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Time ever sleepless, runs its race 
 
 Of chance and change, and cark and care^ 
 Leaving at every step a trace 
 
 That some destroyer hath been there. 
 
 We travel with that viewless thing. 
 Unconscious of its speed and power, 
 
 While fancy still is lingering 
 To gaze on some sweet way side flower,- 
 
 Time doth not stay to ponder on 
 Departed cycles, years and days 
 
 It is our history alone 
 
 That sheds a memory on his ways. 
 
 Oh ! were it not for human things 
 
 Struggling to find some world of bliss, 
 
 From, vear to year time's shadowv win^?? 
 Would flap unheeded over this. 
 
45 
 
 There might tic sun ami inoon anJ staf, 
 All brightening un approachless heavenf 
 
 But they would be less glorious far, 
 If nought of man to earth were given. 
 
 'Tis human hopes and human fears 
 That make the world's reality—* 
 
 'Tis man alone that glveth years 
 The sternness of their entity. 
 
 Albeit that man's companionship 
 ^Vith earthly years is full of strife, 
 
 There are bright moments when his lip 
 May touch some hidden spring of life — . 
 
 Of human life so deeply set 
 
 In beauty of immortal birth. 
 That he, the dreamer, may forget 
 
 His joy and love are all of earth. 
 
 But all of earth although the dear, 
 The beautiful, the bright may be. 
 
 They shadow forth a spirit here 
 That dwelieth in eternitv. 
 
 M 
 
 ^'1 
 
 J E R E M IAD. 
 
 I like not thus to be cast ^5<idc, '' 
 
 Like a useless piece of lumber, 
 
 With nothing to do from morn to nighl 
 But the wearv hours to number. 
 
 •«'?» 
 
 W 
 
I'! 
 
 m 
 
 46 
 
 Ana totter about from nook to nook 
 Of ray loou] wii]j quivering crcopor.fy 
 
 And glininiLr out on the world abroad 
 With dim ami jaundiced peepers. 
 
 The mail coach comes as it came before. 
 And it brings to me the journals ; 
 
 But they're sealed boolvs all alike to me, 
 Both the weeklies ami dinrnals. 
 
 1 know not what is a-goirifr on. 
 
 But people who come about me 
 Say that the world is wafff^in" aWav 
 
 Uncommonly well without me. 
 
 'Tis a hiti(!r thing to be lightly miss'd, 
 
 But it is from j.ain and sorrow 
 That we learn to value the blessings of hcilth, 
 
 And sweets from j)nst bitters to borrow. 
 
 The worst thai is now might be M'orse, 
 
 And tlms I have this consolation, 
 While shelved, to know that though shelved for 
 
 It would not ruin llie nation. [(rood, 
 
 Oy TUT, DEATH OF A YOUNG T.ADY. 
 
 We saw her in her morn of life, 
 A bright and gladsome thing. 
 That breathed into our heart ofhrnrts 
 
 Th 
 
 e s 
 
 pirit of the sprin 
 
 o* 
 
47 
 
 Wc saw ths ilowers o/ joy and hope- 
 The flowers that will not stay— 
 
 tirow round her for a little while, 
 I?etokenin<r no decay. 
 
 But oh ! a canker-worm was there— 
 The beauty and the bloom 
 
 Were but as meteor-lights that rise, 
 To leave a deeper gloom. 
 
 We saw her pine and pine away 
 
 Like an untimely flower. 
 That opes its eye-lids to the sun, 
 
 And withers in an hour. 
 
 We felt her young heart faintly throb 
 Mark'd her bright eye's eclipse, 
 
 And saw the dews of death descend 
 Upon her quivering lips, 
 
 Wc laid her in an early grave, 
 And wept to lay her there ; 
 
 We miss her by the household hearth, 
 And note her empty ciiair. 
 
 Uuf she iiath found a brighter home 
 
 A holier than ovwa^ 
 Wliere hope is truth, and joy and \o^3, 
 
 Are never fading flowers. 
 
 mSr, 
 
iff 
 1; 
 
 1 
 
 III 
 
 4^5 
 
 MICKTLNG OF MOTllL'KS LN I1EAVE\ 
 
 1 dreamed 1 saw two niothera meet 
 
 Beside the eternal throne , 
 And these two mothers were, my love, 
 
 Thy mother and ?iiinc own. 
 
 Although they ne^er had met on earljj. 
 
 They knew each other well, 
 On meeting in that cloudless land 
 
 Where sinless spirits dwell. 
 
 I had seen both their coffins laid 
 
 In far divided tombs — 
 Between their burial places now 
 
 The eternal ocean booms. 
 
 And yet methoup it I saw them m<»et 
 
 In light of love divine, 
 As if they had been early friends — 
 
 Thy mother, love, and mine. 
 
 I heard them talk together long 
 
 Of dear ones left behind 
 As if they wished us then with them. 
 
 One family combined. 
 
 Methought they were commissioned then 
 
 By God himself to be 
 Twin guardian angels, dearest o!ie, 
 
 To watch- o'er thee and me. 
 
49 
 
 Then let us, as we journey uu, 
 
 No iriutter how or wiiere, 
 Pray thut when earth's stern strife is past 
 
 W 
 
 e meet our mothers tfiere. 
 
 LIFE AS IT IS. 
 
 CJive uie marbles, ^ive nie tops, 
 Saith the merry playlul boy ; 
 
 Give me beauty, ^ive me Jove, 
 Saith the ardent youth, and joy. 
 
 The young in search of pleasure, 
 Say there is no labour lost, 
 
 Ifwe get but our full meas.n-e, 
 ^o matter what it cost. 
 
 Press all beauty, press all beauty, 
 To your heart and lo your lips, 
 
 Saith the youn.r one, for its sunny light 
 Can never know eclipse. 
 
 ^ip the nectar, sip the nectar, 
 Say the thoughtless, and r.joice, 
 ♦ Unheedful of the echo 
 
 Of a bitter warning voice. 
 
 O'lve me dancing, gire raesin.rino- 
 !say the glad ones and the fair ; 
 
 They dream not of th 
 
 That daiicetl 
 
 pest\ perchance. 
 
 
 •) fc*in*e(h there. 
 
50 
 
 If^'i 
 
 
 Give ine power and place and pension, 
 Saitli the bold ambitious one, 
 
 And I'll be deemed a patriot 
 When my course of life is done. 
 
 Gold and silver, saith the miser, 
 Are the things that I regard ; 
 
 As fur taking pains to live at all, 
 The one — the sole reward ; 
 
 For when old death shall come at last, 
 
 And find me in a lurch, 
 Though I leave my relatives to starve 
 
 I can endow a church. 
 
 Life is a thing of wishes — 
 
 Not all of them forbidden. 
 But all in vain, unless they reach 
 
 To things that yet are hidden. 
 
 HONNET O.^ THE LATE LORD SYDENHAM. 
 
 We saw him in the counting-house with men 
 
 Of eager trade — a plodding youth- -and then, 
 
 We looked among the senatorial band. 
 
 And found him there— the sages of the land 
 
 Were gathering round the low toned speech to scan, 
 
 Of a thin voiced and melancholy man, * 
 
 * When iie speaks lie is always listened to wilh lUleiiliuii.-' 
 IJandom r:colkciioni of the Jlivse of Commons. 
 
It was the morchant-slatesman — Iionours canio 
 Flocking upon hirn, and begirt his name — 
 Kings sought his counsel — Qucer.c were (ihi *<^ c i 
 Ilis aid ; and bound him to a miglity task — 
 To found a state — in which the wise had fail 
 He came, he saw, like Ca?sar, and prevailed! — ' 
 Built the strong pillars of a glorious empire — gave 
 His name to history, and won — an early grave ! 
 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Auld Scotland is my toast the nicht 
 
 Gif ony body speir it: 
 IJut I've a wee bit preface till't 
 
 Gin ve will whisht to hear it. 
 
 This is a braw braid warld eneugh 
 Wi' walth for fouk to win it ; 
 
 But tell me, cronies, gin ye ken 
 O' but ae Scotland in it. 
 
 Though Ihrawart in her air an' yirtli 
 An' scant o' fouk's providin 
 
 Ken ye o' ony ither land 
 That ye wad tak sic priuc in ? 
 
 We dinna lichtly unco lands. 
 Loved and revered by itl.crs ; 
 
 f Vf'Di, villi, vii i.— C'Tt^r. 
 
 4 
 
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 53 
 
 Tiiry'vc a their kindly mcmorics-- 
 Rut O ! they're nac our mithcr's;. 
 
 We ncedna bra^ o' aiild King Bruce 
 Nor o' the stalwart Wallace, 
 
 For tovvmonts half a thousand taiild, 
 The warld has kent them brawlies?, 
 
 WV dinna blaw o' Burns or Scott, 
 Because they're o' our nation — ■ 
 
 Their narncs are l)lazon'd histories 
 Owre a' the braid creation. 
 
 We boast o' Scotland's eomwon fovky 
 Fouk like oursel's, whn never 
 
 Forget the Parish Kirk and Schule — 
 ^^Auld Scotland,** then, for ever ! 
 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Enthroned upon ttie hills that rise 
 Above the gleaming Forth, 
 
 Dun Edin sits in Queenly pride, 
 The Athens of the North. 
 
 It is not for her georgeous streets, 
 "Her palaces and towers," 
 
 IVor i= it for her ^?\rdcn*=^ green, 
 Though gay with summer tlower?, 
 
53 
 
 Oh ! not for these, thougli grandeur ihcrr, 
 
 With bnauty is combined, 
 Hut for her world of intellect, 
 
 Hrr conscrcgated mind — 
 
 'Tis that which <rives Edina .nil 
 
 Her loftiest renown— 
 "Tis lliat which sheds the Iialo round 
 
 Our "own romantic town." 
 
 A glory circles round and rourui 
 
 Our ancient regal home — 
 A jrlory more sublime than that 
 
 Of Athens, or of Rome. 
 
 It was not yon j)roud citadel. 
 Though proud it well may be, 
 
 But Scotland's own gigantic viind 
 That k<;pt old Scotland free. 
 
 Know yo what price those temples cost. 
 
 That point the way to (iod? 
 They cost the price of martyr lives — 
 
 Were sanctified with blood. 
 
 Tf is not ail the briglit display 
 
 Which eye of stranger irrccts 
 riini makes Edina what f^he ii^ — 
 
 ^1 Church is in hrr ?irrrfs, 
 
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 54 
 
 tiail to Dun Edin !— ever hail ! 
 
 Now rendered doubly dear, 
 Because her children no'.v may say 
 
 "Victoria hath been here." 
 
 ilerc's to the Queen ! the only one 
 
 For hundreds of long years 
 That viewed that palace grey, with eyes 
 
 XI n wet by bitter tears. 
 
 THE PARISH SCHOOL. 
 
 Whence doth that radiant glory come 
 VViiich circles yon far land of ours, 
 
 And makes us prouder of our home 
 Than if it were a land of flowers ? 
 
 For frigid clime and sterile soil 
 
 Why should our own old Scotland care ? 
 \or storm, nor poverty, nor toil 
 
 (>an crush the fervid spirit there. 
 
 Whv is it so ? Oh ! not alone 
 That on each hill, in every glen, 
 
 Far more than monumental stone 
 Tells that she hath unconquercd men. 
 
 Oh, not because we never yield. 
 When deeds of iron war is done, 
 
 Or that when Scotsmen take the field 
 Thf' triumph <urcly niir,!^! be won • 
 
55 
 
 'Tis not to fortress or to tower 
 
 That Scotland owes her share of rule; 
 
 The source of all her pride and power 
 Is in the lowly Parish School. 
 
 The Parish School— how warmly glows 
 Each Scottish heart, whate'er it? lot, 
 
 In distant land, when memory throws 
 Its halo round that hallowed spot. 
 
 Close by our Parish Church there stands, 
 
 Albeit a fane of lowlier kind 
 Than those which rise in sunnier lands, 
 
 The nursery of a nation's mind. 
 
 That mind hath travelled far and wide, 
 O'er every land and every sea ; 
 
 But still its proudest cause of pride. 
 Our Parish School, is all of thee. 
 
 Oh glory to the Parish School, 
 And honour to it every where ; 
 
 For it hath been the vestibule 
 
 To many and many a house of prayer. 
 
 THE LAND O' CAKES. 
 
 Hurrah ! for Scotland — Scotland yet- 
 The land o' Kirk and Schule— 
 
 Whac'er forgets his falhcr-land 
 Maun dree ;ji weary dool. 
 
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 He hu2) hac paiit wi* us llie nicht — 
 
 Nat paiit wi' Scotl'.sli men — 
 Wliase memory never WAUiIers back 
 
 To native hil! or ^Igii. 
 
 There is nae truant Scotsman here, 
 
 That winna i^ang vvi' me 
 ]{ack to our mither's hanic atrain, 
 
 In memory for a' wee. 
 
 It's sweet to think on early IVienils 
 
 That we in Scotland met — 
 Their hamcs — perchance their graver! are lliere- 
 
 For they are Scotland's yet. 
 
 And Oh ! whate'er is Scotland's aye 
 
 To Scottish hearts is dear, 
 However fondly they may bo 
 
 The loved and loving here. 
 
 Wc may ha'e wou'd in proud ha' house, 
 
 Or in a' theekit cot ; 
 But some sweet spirit aye wari there 
 
 That ne'er can be forgot. 
 
 She may ha'e sung the lay we lov'd. 
 
 Or joined us in the dance, 
 Or grut when we wad tell her owre 
 
 Some tale of auhl romance ; 
 
57 
 
 jTiho may ha'c horded sheep wi' ub 
 
 Upon the gowany braes, 
 But she's aye a fairy men^.ory 
 
 About our later way;?. 
 
 It's grand to gather glorious drcauis 
 
 Frae out the auld-warld store 
 O' tales that tell o' stalwart men 
 
 Wi' kilt and braid claymore, 
 
 Wha stood the stour o' niony a' fecht. 
 
 In days o' auld lang-syne, 
 To guard the freedom and the riglit 
 
 That Scotland daursna tyne. 
 
 But holier memories there be, 
 
 That bear the spirit back 
 To times when ambush'd foemon watch 'd 
 
 About the kirk-ward track — 
 
 When ministers in armour prayed, 
 And Scotland's Kirks were caves, 
 
 When bairns were christened frae the burn, 
 And bridal beds were — graves ! 
 
 But blyther, better days ha'e come 
 
 The feuds of other days 
 Are a' forgot, and now we meet 
 
 Wi' friends tijat ance were fae^;. 
 
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 58 
 
 Hurrah ! lor merry England's rose, 
 And Erin's shamrock green — 
 
 Hurrah ! for our Canadian hearths- 
 Our altars and our Q,ueen ! 
 
 LAZINESS. 
 
 It is a thing that feeds on its own fat 
 
 And sleeps on its own sleep — that laziness. 
 The man who hath it creeps about with hat 
 
 Uncock'd, and pantaloons half buttonless ; 
 And yet it may be, though 'tis damning sin 
 
 To be so lazy that this lazy one, 
 Hath spirits thai have suiiered more within 
 
 Than those who blame him did, or could have done, 
 The devil is not lazy — so the)- say — 
 
 In going to and fro in search of prey. 
 The only difference that it makes to me — 
 
 Because to virtue I am rather civil — 
 Is, if such thing I were to be, 
 
 I'd be a lazy, not a busy devil. 
 
 THE DAYS OF DARKNESS. 
 
 ' Truly ihe light is svveef, and a pleasant thing it is for the 
 eyes to behold the sun ; But if a man live many years, and re- 
 joice in them alljj, yet !et him remember the days ol'darkness; 
 lor ihey shall be many."— Ecclesiastks. 
 
 Think ye Iwwevcr brightly now. 
 The sun may beam upon your ways 
 
59 
 
 Thorc is no token on your brow 
 Prophetic of some darker days ? 
 
 Think ye the light that revels there 
 Is stamped with an eternal seal 
 
 And deem ye not that years of care 
 May not a different world reveal. 
 
 Oh ! deem ye not, however bright 
 A sun your birth-day morning gave, 
 
 That it was only given to light 
 Through days of darkness to tlie grave. 
 
 Oh ! we may gaily wander through 
 A paradise of summer bloom ; 
 
 But flowers are only gathering dew 
 To shed, like tears, upon the tomb. 
 
 There ig an hour that all must meet 
 However soon or late it come ; 
 
 For time walks on with restless feet 
 To lead us to our final home. 
 
 One pulse throbb'd out, the last of all. 
 And then we seem to cease to be ; 
 
 But can the coffin and the paii 
 Enshroud the soul's eternity ? 
 
 How merrily our life may run 
 Through many scarcely noted ycarb ! 
 
 But still our story when 'lis done, 
 Mny all be blotted out M'ith tears. 
 
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 ilowpvn fondly wo may clasp 
 The brijrlit and beautiful of earth, 
 
 An hour is coming' when one j[^asp 
 Will wake us to another birth. 
 
 But where and what that birth may be-— 
 
 Can any spirit answer that ? 
 The only voice that reaches me 
 
 Re-echoes only "Where and What f' 
 
 The knowlfdire is not given to me, 
 How many yeurs and days of life 
 
 Await me, but their end must be 
 A thing of struggle and of strife. 
 
 Then let me, as I travel on 
 
 Select the flowers that .-. ther dews, 
 W^hich God when time with me hath done 
 
 As tears for sin will not refuse. 
 
 A STORMY DAY. 
 
 Above all things I like a stormy day, 
 'Tis then 1 send my sympathies about — 
 
 Oh ! should we not when snugly housed, with.-gay. 
 Glad faces round us, think of those without? 
 
 It is a pleasant thing to think. 
 
 That while abroad arc smotlicrcd men and sheep, 
 We are at home, to talk and eat and drink, 
 
 And when wc d<.t get sleepy, go to slee[>. 
 
61 
 
 'Tis plcjisatit, doubtless, but there is iill.ry 
 In all this pleasantness, for there will come 
 
 The thoughts of perished wretches to annoy. 
 And bring up ghosts to haunt the warmest homc<i 
 
 The sole unmingled comfort of a stormy day 
 Is, it scares duns — the worst of devils- -all away, 
 
 LOVR—A SONNEt. 
 
 Oh ! love is an eternal thin^. 
 Which keeps alive the thouglits that bring 
 All joy unto the heart. 
 
 It may perhaps at times seem cold ; 
 r3ut though it waxeth old and old 
 It cannot all depart. 
 
 If love were only a mere thing of earth 
 
 The God of Love would not have given it birth, 
 
 The cheek's pure bloom may pass away, 
 
 The raven tresses turn to grey — 
 
 The eyes of wooed and wooer 
 
 May lose their lustre and retreat 
 
 Behind some shadows, but the beat 
 
 Of heart to heart grows truer. 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 Luke, vii, 12 — 15. 
 Oh ! is it not a melancholy tiling 
 For youth and strength to droop into the grave? 
 It is— but sadder far to single out 
 
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 One lonely muurncr Iroin among llic crowd — • 
 The half of whom arc mummers in a show- 
 One broken reed, yet quivering in the life 
 That gave the life to that which lives no more, 
 Tlie mother of the dead, all desolate, 
 A husbandless and childless thing of woe. 
 Thus she o( Nain was singled out by one — 
 To her a stranger, who beheld iier weep. 
 
 BURNS' FESTIVAL. 
 
 On the late return to Scotland of the three sons of Burns, a 
 public I'cstival was go*, up in Ayr, the Earl of Eglington in the 
 Chair. Professor Wilson, the celebrated Christopher North of 
 Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. Alison, the no less celebrated his- 
 torian, &c., were present. 
 
 Thev came from the East and the West, 
 
 From the North and the South they were theie, 
 
 But why was it thus that they met — 
 The noble, the gifted and fair ? 
 
 Oh ! was it the crowning of Monarch that broufrht 
 
 'i'ogethcr so glorious a band? 
 Or was it the warrior memories 
 
 Of our own old father land ? 
 
 Was it to sing some songs of mirth 
 
 ,\nd be glad for a little time ? 
 (^r was it not fur a nobler aim — 
 A piiri>i)s(: more sublime? 
 

 63 
 
 Oh ! yes 'twar; to welcome tljcm baek — 
 
 The sons of the Bard of Ayr 
 That the pride a»d the genius of Scotland, 
 
 Her high and her lovely wore there. 
 
 And for whom were they there ? Oh ! say, 
 Was it not for the Peasant bard, 
 
 Who once in the depth of poverty 
 Would have counted it high reward, 
 
 To have seen his sons thus welcomed back, 
 
 To have heard the loud acclaim 
 Which the genius and pride of his native land 
 
 Award to a peasant's name. 
 
 Oh ! glory to Scotland, where peers 
 
 Look up to a higher estate 
 Than their wealth and th ;ir honors bestow, 
 
 And know that a peasant is great. 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 Pilgrim, rest thee, dark and beamless 
 Are the shades that round thee hovrr ; 
 
 Now thy sleep is deep and dreamless, 
 Now thy painful journey's over. 
 
 Friendless thou wert doom'd to wander 
 
 None beheh thy journey closing ; 
 
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 Tcw ihci't l)f iliit (Icigii to pouiler 
 O'er the j)lurc of thy reposing. 
 
 Yet, a si^h of tender sorrow, 
 
 One sad heart shall o'er thee heave — 
 Yet, from ip.etnory one rfhaU bjrrow 
 
 Teart) to consecrate thy grave. 
 
 Child of genius, turn thee liithcr ; 
 
 llallow'd is this bank of hraken, 
 Where the relics of a brother 
 
 Sleep, unheeded and forsaken. 
 
 Hut, alas ! 'lis hallowM only 
 
 To the heart that loves to ponder 
 
 Nigh the spot, forlorn and lonely, 
 Where unbodied shadows wander. 
 
 Ye who ask, with looks of sadness, 
 Why uncropt these wild weeds grow — 
 
 'Twas the frenzied deed of madness 
 Laid the hapless wanderer low. 
 
 Turn not hence, for Oh the sorrow ! 
 
 That destroyed his lingering hours, 
 May be — some unhappy morrow — 
 
 Heaven farbid it ! — may be yours. 
 
 pilgrim, rest thee, dark and beaniless 
 Are the shades that round thee hover ; 
 
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 05 
 
 Now thy bleep i^j (ieep and Lheamlcs^i, 
 Now thy [)ainful journey's over. 
 
 THE MADMAN. 
 
 Poor outcast from the lij^j^ht of lieaveri ! 
 8ay, by what impulse art thou driven ? 
 To wander thus in weary mood, 
 
 As if no world but solitude, 
 
 No being but thyself alone. 
 
 No sun, no sky, existed- -none ! 
 
 Or if thy bosom owns a iliought 
 
 Of aught around, thou deemest not 
 
 That one fair trait of loveliness 
 
 Illumes creation's dreariness. 
 
 That shieldless head, that naked form, 
 
 Unconscious of the pelting storm — 
 
 That moody gait, that wilder'd eye, 
 
 Whose gaze is bare nonentity — 
 
 (Save, when in mem'ry's fleeting lU, 
 
 Some feeling dark, indefinite, 
 
 Darts on thy soul, that eye may beam, 
 
 But Oh ! 'tis as the lightning's gleam, 
 
 Or mountain-spirit's vigil light, 
 
 That sweeps a jss the wild by night !)— 
 
 That brow, whose lines of wasting sadness, 
 
 Have triumph'd o'er the skaith of madmess- 
 
 These — of thy wayward soul declare, 
 

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 60 
 
 And tell of dreams that revel there, 
 More wild than au^rht oj' fa;; jy's truhi 
 That ever dwelt in poet's brain. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 
 Farewell, my love ! but ere we sever, 
 
 This last embrace — adieu for ever ! 
 
 For ever ! no some happier morn 
 
 3Iay dawn, to welcome my return ; 
 
 And if that morn should never come, 
 
 To hail thy wayward wanderer home, 
 
 There is a brighter, happier shore, 
 
 Where we may meet, to part no more. 
 
 Full many a parting I Jiave known ; 
 
 Farewell hath even lumiliar grown. 
 
 Yea — I have given a parting sigh 
 
 To all I loved beneath the sky ; 
 
 Hut Oh ! till now, I never know 
 
 Tlie deep, deep anguish of adieu— 
 
 Another sigh — anotlusr tear — 
 
 What boots it now to linjrer here ? 
 
 'J'lie liearlless talk, the lingering look, 
 
 The shake of hands, I cannot brook. 
 
 lint one short moment ere 1 go, 
 
 One moment of urmiingled woe ; 
 
 Thus, 1 would round thee, round lliee twine, 
 
 ri' 
 
07 
 
 And jrraft rny vrry soul on thine 
 
 And tlien — adieu! adieu for ever! 
 I will foro^et thee— never ! — never I 
 
 THE MANIAC MOTHER. 
 
 niue roll'd the mist on hhe dark Clochnabane, 
 And sad was the sigh of the heath and the fern ; 
 
 Deep murmur'd the Dye in her shadowy glen, 
 And the plover's wild lullaby rung on the Cairn ;* 
 
 A poor homeless wanderer had laid her to rest : 
 Cold was her bed on the hill, wild and bleak ; 
 
 Sad was the sigh that arose in her breast, 
 And bitter the tear-drop that dew'd her pale cheek. 
 
 Short was the pang of that sigh and that tear: 
 Fleeting and sad— 'twas a dim gleam of light 
 
 From the fountain of reason, that rose not to cheer, 
 But to sadden tlie gloom of insanity's niglit. 
 
 Loose llowM her dark tresses and j)layM in the gale. 
 And lier cheek wore the hue and the semblance of 
 death : 
 She lift up her mourning— Oh heard ye the talc ! 
 As it tromblinoly swept o'er the desolate heath. 
 
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 * raiiii ,)' Mri'int n inonnUiiti jti Kin';niilin<'.siiiiv. 
 
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 68 
 
 "Rest thee, my babe ! undistnvb'd be ihy sleep, 
 And soft be the cold earth that pillows thy head ; 
 
 Hush ye wild winds, o'er the mountain that sweep : 
 And howl not ye hrakens that shelter his bed. 
 
 ♦♦Where, Oh my God ! is the grave of my child? 
 
 The grey stone that mark'd it was stain'd with a tear. 
 Around it the desert's red heather bloom'd wild— 
 
 I thought— but I dream'd, when I thought it was here. 
 
 ♦♦Ah cruel was his father to bear him away ! 
 Sad, sad was the night— I remember it well 
 
 My bosom grew cold, and my heart went astray- 
 Each blast of the wind seem'd his funeral knell." 
 
 How dim is that eye, now extinguish'd in death ! 
 
 How pallid the cheek that once rival'd the rose ! 
 ♦♦My child!" she exclaim'd, with the last throb of breath. 
 
 And her soul sought the realms of eternal repose. 
 
 THE LOVER'S RH/VPSODY. 
 
 Oft have 1 felt a tender sympathy. 
 
 I thought 'twas love, but 'twas a milder i^Iow ; 
 I knew not then that love was ccstacy, 
 
 Or boundless transport, or severest v/or. 
 
 Ah then ! my bosom had not Icarn'd to brat, 
 With that sweet raj^ture of a llecting hour, 
 
m 
 
 I since liave felt, and never can forget, 
 
 'Twas love's delirium, passion's wildest power. 
 
 Love has its sunshine, and its shade; 
 
 I knew its pleasure, and I feel its pain ; 
 ^ts pleasure like a passing vision fled, 
 
 But ah ! its sorrow ever will remain. 
 
 A phantom haunts my bosom's every dream , 
 
 A dear delusion of a heavenly kind. 
 More lovely far than beauty's brightest beam, 
 
 'Tis virtue in an angel form enshrin'd. 
 
 A phantom ! no, 'tis dear reality ; 
 
 These eyes have seen it, and this heart hath felt ; 
 'Tis gone, but the soft eye of memory 
 
 Shall o'er its cherish'd semblance ever melt. 
 
 When these sad eyes are seal'd in latent night, 
 And this impassion'd bosom lies at rest *, 
 
 In one short line my history you may write — 
 
 "Wrctclicd 'or year^, and but one 'noment blest." 
 
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 THE MISAjNTHROPE. 
 
 Oh bear me to some secret shade ! 
 
 To some dark, deep Lethean grove ! 
 Where frieiMlsb.ln'-'^ >Hinie was nevcf he?\t'd. 
 
 Where I miiy never dream of love. 
 
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 7'hcre nii^'lit I claim the symp.-illiy 
 Of barren rocks, and deserts drear ; 
 
 These mock not with the smile of love, 
 The?e shed riot the dissem])lino^ tear. 
 
 Friendship is but a childish play ; 
 
 Blush, proud humanity, for shame ! 
 Man sports it with hi^ brother man, 
 
 Nor stakes a feeling at the frame. 
 
 And love is still an idler sport, 
 A word nol worth tlie reckoninrr; 
 
 A dream of maids and giddy youths, 
 The semblance of some unseen thing. 
 
 Joy, friendship, love, imposing names ! 
 
 To youth's un tutor'd bosom dear ; 
 Ev'n, from the heart ye have deceiv'd 
 
 Ye claim the tribute of a tear. 
 
 Oh beautnnus arr (ho (airy scenes. 
 
 That charm the raptured eye of youth ! 
 
 Who would exchange the dream of hope, 
 For years Of bare ungildcd truth ! 
 
 Yet who, for rJiildl;ood*.<! sweet return. 
 Would brave another life of pain? 
 
 Ah many! (such a dupe is man,) 
 Would trust and br drreivM ajr^in, 
 
71 
 
 There was a time, but it is past. 
 
 When I was gay as any one : 
 Itemembrance ot'i, in musing mood. 
 
 Recalls the season that is irone. 
 
 Oh ! like the bright deluder hopfe, 
 Remembrance too shall have its day ; 
 
 O'er ruin'd hope 'twill shed its tear, 
 And like a vision pass away. 
 
 Away ye tender dreams ! away ! 
 
 I may not feel afFection's glow, 
 Again, at love's deluding shrine, 
 
 This stubborn heart shall never bow. 
 
 Oh ! bear me to some secret shade ! 
 
 To some dark, deep Lethean grove ! 
 Where friendship's name was never heard, 
 
 Where I may never dream of love. 
 
 • TIIR BUND BEGGAR. 
 
 Oh ! blanch'd is that visage, and hoary the hairs. 
 In the i*old icy winds of the winter that wave ; 
 
 Short while, and the pilgrim's lone bosum of cares 
 Shall calmly repose in the home of the grave. 
 
 A few fleeting days, and the sorrows shall cease 
 That burst from his bosom in many a siorh ; 
 
 Ah ! surely 'tis well thai; a dwelling of peace 
 Hcmains for the weary of heart in the sky. 
 
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 Yet the soul, ere it leave lliciu for ever, may t;ast 
 One thought on the cares of its lowly sojourn ; 
 
 One sigh of regret o'er the joys that are past 
 May burst from the heart on mortality's bourn. 
 
 The wretch, on the verge of eternity's years, 
 Looks back with a sigh ere his spirit depart ; 
 
 For Oh ! there are ties in this valley of tears, 
 That twiue round the core of the loneliest heart. 
 
 Though long set in darkness, that visionless eye 
 
 On the bright form of loveliness once may have dwelt 
 And the heart that seems bursting with sorrow's last 
 
 Perchance the sweet raptures of love may have felt. 
 
 Oh yes ! and perchance he halh wept o'er the fall 
 Of the hopes that deceived with the semblance of 
 truth : 
 
 One poor orphan-child is the remnant of all 
 
 That his bosom had loved, in the pride of his youth 
 
 And Oh ! though the wanderer's eye may not trace 
 The smiles, on the brow of his daughter that play. 
 
 Remembrance hath pictured a form and a face, 
 Like those of a loved one who sleeps in the clay. 
 
 Poor child ! when thy guardian is laid in the grave, 
 Who then will alleviate the woes of thy heart? 
 
 And wlto, in the dark hour of trial, will save 
 Thy bloom and thy beauty from villainous art; 
 
73 
 
 Willi none to befriend, and no eye to dqdnrc ihcn, 
 Perchance thou art destined to wander forlorn ; 
 
 But } H in the sky there's a CJod lo watch o'er thee, 
 Who tempera tho wind to the lamb that is shorn. 
 
 THE (JLOAMIX. 
 
 There is an hour thai wakes the sirrii 
 Of early youth's remcniber'd years ; 
 
 That sheds the liirht of days <^one by 
 
 O'er scenes embalm'd in memory's iear^. 
 
 I love that hour, when, softly calm, 
 The linjjferin^ beams of day depart — 
 
 Sweet hour ! that briuifs a sootiiinxr balm 
 To manv a worn and weary heart, 
 
 'Tis sweet, when <»'er the marshy feu 
 The low white mists of evening creeps 
 
 To list the streamlet of the glen, 
 
 Far in the distance, murmuring deep. 
 
 Beneath the vew-tree's holv shade, 
 When the grey bat is Hittinff by. 
 
 O'er the \o:\ dwelling of tlie dead, 
 'Tis sweet to breathe affection's siiih. 
 
 'Tis sweet to muse on wizard rhymes, 
 When the slow beetle's vesper hymn, 
 
 Sad as the voice of other times. 
 
 Comes Jloatijig on the uloamin dim. 
 
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 74 
 
 But Oh ! 'lis sweeter still to woo 
 The trysting hawthorn's fragrant shade ; 
 
 When, softly tripping o*er tlie dew, 
 Comes, with light heart, the blushing maid. 
 
 Is there an hour of dearer bliss 
 
 Than that sweet hour, when trembling youth 
 Steals, half afraid, the first warm kiss 
 
 From the pure lip of love and truth .' 
 
 Ah none ! through all the after years 
 That mark this tedious life of pain, 
 
 Th* ecstatic dream of hopes and fears 
 Can ne'er so dearly charm again. 
 
 For Oh! young love's delirious power 
 Can but one fleeting moment last; 
 
 'Tis like the rose's faded flower, 
 
 Though uagrant still, its bloom is past. 
 
 Yet there's a feeling that imparts 
 A balm, the wounded soul to heal ; 
 
 A charrn to all, save blighted hearts 
 
 liike mine, that long have ceased to feci. 
 
 To me, alas ! love's dear embrace, 
 And friendship's smile avail not now ; 
 
 Nor heav'ns pure breeze, it cannot chuce 
 Tlie burning fever from my brow. 
 
7«> 
 
 The halo, once by memory cast 
 
 Arourul me, miglit have liush'd my sadness ; 
 Its meteor beauty now is past, 
 
 No more to soothe an hour of madness. 
 
 Still, in that hour, when gloamin's fall 
 Spreads o'er the scene its liallow'd veil, 
 
 The musing eye may roam o'er all 
 The. fairy world of memory's tale. 
 
 Remembrance ! thou art all to me, 
 My sun of joy hath long been set ; 
 
 The tale of rapture told by thee, 
 la all that I would not forget. 
 
 Yes, 1 will woo thee. Memory ! 
 
 When floating in the dusky air. 
 And mingling with the zephyr's sigh. 
 
 Is heard the hermit's evening prayer ; 
 
 And haply, when the lingering years 
 
 Of bitterness have pass'd away, 
 This eye, long, long unblest by tears, 
 
 May weep to hail a happier day. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 *Tis mournful to watch by the lonely bed, 
 Where a friend or a brother is dying; 
 
 
 <T 
 
 Where the corpse of a parent is lyin^. 
 

 Ti> rnournrnl t(» lliink of fhr lust ilicii, 
 
 V>y a wile or a sistor spoken ; 
 For tli(»sti who liiivc bnrn tl\(! most fiiitldul and truf^ 
 
 Often Icavr ns the hitterrst tokt'n. 
 
 'Tis mourliful to j^a/r on Ihr withrrM form 
 
 Of an early fa led hlor^soni ; 
 And to know that to-morrow the orawlinjx worm 
 
 Will riot on bcaiitv's hoaom. 
 
 V(!t ihcM' are but lloolinj: pr.njis of ' day, 
 Tliat wt' diudy rt^mcmbcr fo-inorii!W ; 
 
 Hut to watch o'er an only child's decay. 
 Is the deepest, the bitterest sorrow. 
 
 Have v(' ^^een him who-fe brow isdarkcn'd with thought 
 Through the rhurrh-yard pensively roaming? 
 
 Ye will fnid him alone by the burial spot 
 Of hit> child, at the grey of nloaming:. 
 
 He irf loft in the world, vmfricndi d and lone ', 
 lie will leave no memoy»ul b< hind hini : 
 
 lie needs not the :ud of a funeral stone 
 Of the sacred spot to remind him. 
 
 His eye is rlim, and his ciieek is sere, 
 
 ,Vnd niarkM with many a furrow : * 
 
 (fp coHied to let fall om.- bilier tear. 
 ■'J')-; fh": lust nf lii^ ryrt!dv sorrow. 
 
'J'he (lay of her beauty was lovi 1\ and brief, 
 And bright was the prospect before her ; 
 
 Nor lingering and slow was the hour of grief, 
 For its ahjuish pas; '1 suddenly o'er her. 
 
 Few, few of ti\< happy will weep for her fate. 
 
 For sittiple and plain is her story : 
 'Tis said ihat it shames not the noble and great 
 
 O'er the wreck of poor virtue to glory. 
 
 The heartless seducer may scofTat the guilt 
 That the wiles of his villainy taught her; 
 
 But Oh ! let him kneel where a father hath knelt I 
 On the grave of an only daughter. 
 
 Let liim boast of the trophies of perjury there. 
 
 And tell if its triumph endurelh ; 
 And study, tho' late, the strange language of prayer, 
 
 When beauty no longer allurelh. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE .AT.DUM OF THE TABLE ROCK, 
 
 NI/ vRA FALLS. 
 
 Great Spiilt of the waters! I have come, 
 From forth mine own indomitable home. 
 Far o't the bihuvvs of the eternal sea. 
 To brcaliie my heart's deep homage unto thee, 
 And gaze on fiories that might wake to prayer 
 A luitthc hi>pclca^ vii*im ef despair. 
 
w 
 
 !*! 
 
 PI,'. 
 
 Flood (jf the fu»«it, frarfully wiiblirae, 
 Kestloss, resistless as the lido of time, 
 There is no type of ihce— thou art aloue, 
 Fn isleepless glory rushing on and on. 
 Flood of the desert ! thou liast been to me 
 A drcatn ; and thou art still a mystery. 
 "Would I had seen thee years and years ogone, 
 While thou v/ert yet unworshipped and unknown, 
 And thy fierce torrent, as it rushed alonj/, 
 Through tlie wild desert poured its booming song, 
 Unheard by all save him of lordly mood — 
 The bronzed and free-born native of the wood. 
 How would my heart have quivered to its core, 
 To know its God, not all revealed before ! 
 In other times when I was wont to roam 
 Around the niist-robcd mountain peaks of home. 
 My fiiiicy wandered to this Western clime. 
 
 Where all the liaunts of nature are sublime; 
 
 And thou wert on my dream so dread a ihinjr, 
 
 I trembled at my own imagining. 
 
 Flood of the forest ! I have been with thee, 
 
 And still thou art a ni)-stery to me. 
 
 Years will roll on as they have rolled, and thou 
 
 Will speak in thunder as thou speakest now ; 
 
 And when the name that 1 inscribe to-day 
 
 TTpon thine altar shall have passed away 
 
 From all rcmcunbranrc, nnd the lay I fing 
 
k: '-f 
 
 19 
 
 Shall long have been but a furgolten thiiiij- — 
 Thou wilt be sung, and other hands than mine 
 Shall wreathe a worthier chaplet for thy ahrine, 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 Roll on, mysterious river, in thy might 
 
 Awakening dreams of terrible delight, 
 
 Or thrilling fear, and turning into nought 
 
 All that hath e'er been sketched in human thought, 
 
 Of beauty and of grandeur — God hath thrown 
 
 A glorious girdle round thee — God alone 
 
 Can curb thy restless torrent — He who gavo 
 
 His voice of thunder to thy rushing wave, 
 
 And built on foam the bright prismatic bow 
 
 That sheds its glory on the gulf below — 
 
 Yea, He whose path is in the secret deep, 
 
 Shall lull thy troubled spirit into sleep. 
 
 Still as a wearied babe's that on the breast 
 
 Of yearning Jove is cradled into rest. 
 
 THE VILLAGE POET.— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Know ye a wight of dark and wayward mood, 
 Whose brow bespeaks a bosom wrung with care ; 
 
 Whose eye still broods on joyless solitude, 
 Reckless that aught in this gay world is fair, 
 
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 ■-vnfjt»-< nummi : ,Mi* \» mr >f 
 
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 80 
 
 Save the lone desert and the trackless wood, 
 
 Where oft he breathes his heart's unwritten prayer. 
 A being ot" another world he seems, 
 A lonely stranger from a land of dreams ? 
 
 I know him well — I knew him when a cliild, 
 
 While yet he deem'd that fancy's tale was sooth — 
 Even then, he was not happy when he smiled ; 
 
 For thoiiglit will blight the fairest bloom of y"»iith — 
 Even then, he wooed the spirit-haunted wild, 
 To muse by night on some unlovely truth. 
 
 Even then he felt, although the icierd was dim, 
 That this wide world had little room for him. 
 
 Oft have I seen him, as he went to school, 
 Pausing and pondering on his tatter'd book ; 
 
 Siili poring o'er some cramp grammatic rule, 
 Or gaTiing, with a fix'd and wizard look. 
 
 On the blue sky, shown in a waveless pool. 
 
 Or the scarce ruffled bosom of a brook. 
 FIr.sl at his task, nor second oft at play. 
 Demure or careless, he was seldom gay. 
 
 Man of the world J it will not much avail. 
 
 That thou should'st read the village minstrcrs strain*, 
 
 Such hearts as thine will recognize the tale 
 As the dull working of an idle brain ; 
 
 He will not reck, for sermons too are stale, 
 And sweetest munic to thine ear is^. vaiji. 
 
HI 
 
 Mail (,f tlie world ! it buot.s not u.joJit to the*-. 
 What hv hath been, nor what his sunir may be. 
 
 4 
 
 Vet, Oh, perchance ! on some I'ar distant day, 
 
 Wlien he hath bade this idle World adieu, 
 Some kindred spirit, musinu o'er hit; hiy, 
 
 May tune the minstrel's broken harp anew. 
 Some stricken pilj^rin), lingering by the way, 
 
 With wild-woo«l il(t\vers, his narrow grave may strew 
 To him it boots not, whether praise or blame 
 ►Shall be the guerdon ot las Innnble name. 
 
 lie early felt a strange, unbidden glow 
 
 Warm ail his bosom, as he gazed upon 
 The uid)rokr;n charm that dwelt upon the brow 
 or a fair girl, who, when her task was done. 
 Would sit beside him, whilr liis ear would (rh.w 
 'J'o her soft whisper, breathed to him alone. 
 Shame on the cold philosophy that wean^ 
 'J'he h<^art t'nmi U)V( , and all its lairv ?cer\es ! 
 
 Shanve on the heart so cold and passionless ! 
 
 Thatscorns the charm which beantv round her duals : 
 J would not give one little hour of bliss. 
 
 Such as the rapture-stricken bosom feels — 
 J would not give one pure ecstatic kiss, 
 For all that wisdijin to the world reveals. 
 Shame on the [)rudcnco that would stehi tlie lloo(i 
 or generous re(;liut;;'s ever Ihn.bbinir blood f 
 
1^ 
 
 82 
 
 Uountl liis young heart tliat I'airy-spirit wove 
 
 A web ol" spells, unconscious of its ait *. 
 She seem'd a vagrant angel from above, 
 
 So pure, so bright; but they were doom'd to part. 
 Perchance he wept, for childhood's earliest love 
 Is not the burning fever of the heart. 
 
 That dries the spring of unforbidden tears, 
 And wastes the strength of man's maturerycgrs. 
 
 1 envy not the stoic's boasted lot, 
 
 By grief untroubled, and by joy unbless'd ; 
 1 tremble, lest long years of care should blot 
 
 Tiiose early records from my throbbing breast. 
 Far rather let my being's fragile knot 
 Ue How untied, and let me be at rest. 
 I would not be ^ reptile of a day, 
 A crawling thing of unimpasaiion'd clay. » 
 
 l( chance he grieved, 'twas only for a day — 
 
 Mope, pride, ambition, gave his heari f€li>>f: 
 When we are young, ere these have known decay. 
 One hour, 'tis true, may wake tlic tear of grief; 
 But, Oh ! the next will dash that tear av.^ay : 
 'Twerc well if manhood's sorrows were as brief— 
 'Twerc well if these could neutralize the fears 
 That darkly brood o'er life's declining years. 
 
 True, there are moments when a few faint gleams 
 Of broker, f-unshiuo hyiy^.i upon his mind: 
 
83 
 
 He dwells not always in his world of dreams ; 
 But sometimes will associate with his kind. 
 True, he can smile, but aye his smiling seems 
 Blent with a cloud of darkoess, undefined, 
 ^ That shows a heart, whatever had been its fate, 
 By nature form'd, the world and man to hate. 
 
 From books and men, perchance from women too, 
 
 Much hath he learn'd of idle common place : 
 Some books are useless, and the residue 
 
 Only directs our wayward thoughts to trace 
 This plain, blunt truth, that there is nothing new 
 In all the history of life's. bootless chace. 
 
 Women are books, tho' he hath read them mof^t. 
 Which least repay the labor and the cost. 
 
 Much hath he read of woman's bloated book ; 
 
 Degraded woman ! thou art all a lie. 
 What is thy beauty but a gilded hook, 
 
 To catch the young, unwary passer-by ? 
 
 Ail, all of love that woman's heart can brook, 
 
 Dies in the brief-lived anguish of a sio-h. 
 
 I'he loves and friendships of the world arc one— 
 The heart that trusts to either is undone. 
 
 To-day the bard hath closed his thirtieth year. 
 
 The middle volume of the book of life : 
 To him no more the voice (»f song is dear, 
 
 And who will rock ' lor poets now arc rife : 
 
 liii 
 
SI 
 
 ■<l> ' 
 
 I *i 
 
 '^f 
 
 r,.;-v 
 
 ilc nijl iHvtlonj: have any busiiirss licro, 
 
 And nui.;li ho chycb not — 'lis a scene of strife- 
 Why should ht' care? no children ho will leave, 
 No wife, a lingerin|Z week or two. tf) irricve. 
 
 I'pon the centre of the arcri. whose span 
 
 Extends across time's ever-restless tide, 
 He tremblintr stamls, reluctant still to scan 
 
 The clouds that on its farther ver^e abide, 
 He fain would know the destinv of man, 
 
 When time's tempcsluons current shall subside. 
 The yevirs of life, v.hen all its years are past, 
 Will not be worth recounting at the last. 
 
 When he hath closed his brief, but fiiteful tale. 
 
 And o^^r his urn unhallow'd weeds shall wave, 
 Wluit will his rhymes and vtanderin^fs avail ? 
 
 What will he gain, ajtlioiig'h his wizard slave, 
 f n years far hence, should rinj; o'er hill and dale ? 
 A name — poor bauble ! can it reach the irrave ? 
 Alas ! can j)raisf, to living! men so dear, 
 Ke^fale ilic dulness of a dead man's ear. 
 
 I-'atnc melts away, like uniic tracery wrouyht 
 l*y idle school-boy's fuiaer on the snow ; 
 
 And yet, 1 ween, it is not cheaply bouoht, — 
 Tlie <'liildof fronius is the cjiild of woe : 
 
 'j'hc victim sliil of many a wayward thought, 
 That o!!w.r..5 Ukow 1!!^, au'l '-nn wyw kno^v, 
 
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 fn'^ 
 
 Tis true, our songster hath but little daim 
 To the proud honors of a poet's name. 
 
 True ! much he knows not of the splendid tliron^ 
 
 Of ancient bards, who pour'd the living lay ; 
 Albeit, at school he conn'd the Latin song. 
 
 That charm'd proud Rome, when empires own'd her 
 swa5% 
 He better loves to spend his hours among 
 The vocal groves of Britain's later day ; 
 
 To tread the wilds where Caledonia mourns, 
 O'er the cold ashes of ill-fated Burns ! 
 
 'Ti« his to cull a few ungather'd flowers. 
 
 That bloom unseen on Convcth's dewy dale ; 
 'Tis his, unknown, to wander in the bowers 
 
 Of green Kincardine's hill-cmbosom'd vale ; 
 Where once a minstrel spent his infant iiaurs— - 
 Where Edwin Icarn'd to con Iiis simple tale. 
 Why should we hold the voice of fume so dear ? 
 Even Bcatties name is half-furgolten here. 
 
 Who then will ask the Ikieage or the name, 
 Or read the history of the village bard ? 
 
 Tliough few, perchance, will recognise the claim 
 Of one so humble to the world's regard ; 
 
 It will jiot be recorded to his shame, 
 7'liaf he liiith suirj ibr lucre's b.isr reward. 
 
 I 
 
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 5(1 
 
 To noblest names but little praise is due- 
 Ali ])raisc is iiattcry — flattery all untrue. 
 
 ON A TOBACCO PIPE. 
 
 Tiiis crazy brain I needna rype 
 
 Fur ony triing surprisin ; 
 ril just g['c this auld cutty pipe 
 
 A mament's moralizin : 
 
 An' though the lady-finger't spark 
 Wad rather touch a nettle ; 
 
 For a' his boots an' ruffled sark, 
 He's made o' coarser mettle. 
 
 I carena for the siller't gype, 
 Wha, turnin aye his c'e up, 
 
 Thinks me a reekit, cutty pipe, 
 Himscl' a china tea-cup. 
 
 Yes, lordly man, wha struts his day. 
 
 Ambition's idle votary, 
 Is like this brittle tube o' clay, 
 
 Or lump o' Stafford pottery. 
 
 The scandal cup, o' fmtst gear. 
 May grace the hand o' beauty ; 
 
 The hladdo-bovvl, o' teugher wear, 
 As cithly docs its duty. 
 
 This black-mou'd cutty, worn an' auld. 
 That I sue dour-icly rrack o' : 
 
S7 
 
 Though I u raitli twice owre hue tauld, 
 Sin' first it brunt tobacco. 
 
 Just sairs its end, us gin 't '.var' new, 
 Wi' head o' brass or copper : 
 
 Though it mith gar the youngster spew, 
 Wha fain wad be a snjoker. 
 
 It's nae a gowd that glitters gay ; 
 
 There may be dross an' a' in't. 
 The pipe that's made o' linest clay 
 
 May ablins ha'e a fiaw in't. 
 
 An' he wha struts in gowdcn lane, 
 
 Though happier his lot is, 
 May ablins be as scant o' iirnce 
 
 As ony Hottentot is. 
 
 The countra clown, wha scarce can tell 
 
 A towmont frae a cent'iy. 
 For sterlin worth may bear the bell 
 
 Out owre a host o' gentry. 
 
 This truth aye hands o'er a' the earth, 
 Amang baith fule an' wise o't. 
 
 That honour's nae in wealth or birth ; 
 True virtue's aye the price o't. 
 
 The fairest cheek will turn to clay. 
 
 For a' the gaudy hyde o't ; 
 Like an auld pipe 'tis cast away, 
 
 Whane'er it tyneg the pridt= o'l. 
 
88 
 
 li ' 
 
 It's I > 
 
 tin 
 
 $ 
 
 & 
 
 mt. 
 
 t 
 
 Wlia Wild renown, or richos >(H!k, 
 Or pomp, or fashion talk o' f 
 
 They're but the evanescent reck 
 ()' human life's tobacco. 
 
 Then, brethren, fill tlic miickle cog, 
 An' gar auld sorrow soom in't; 
 
 The warkl may set the ricli a«rog, 
 But pair fouk maun hu'c room in't. 
 
 But while ye smoke the lither pipe, 
 
 An' ca' the lither gill in ; 
 Devall betimes, afore ye rype 
 
 Too»n pouches for ashiliin. 
 
 TO A SHILLING, 
 
 Thou little mammon ! not to thee 
 
 My heart's idolatry I gi'o ; 
 
 It shames a ragged bard like me, 
 
 To shaw his face, 
 Whnr' courtly minstrels bend the knee 
 
 Wi' better grace. 
 
 But yet, howe'er thou may'st seem 
 Unmeet to grace a poet's theme ; 
 It's but a mere poetic dream, 
 
 To scorn thy worth ; 
 For Ihou art still the [)ovrer supreme 
 
 Owre a' the earth. 
 

 S9 
 
 'J'lic page o' history can tell, 
 
 For thee, how heroes louglit an' fell ; 
 
 How, warmM by thee, the bard himser 
 
 Feels brighter rapture : 
 For tlicc the priest besieges hell, 
 
 Wi' bkudso' scripture. 
 
 They say that statesmen, to die de'il. 
 For thee ha'e sauld their country's weal ; 
 Preferment's brae e'en ."'ct them speel, 
 
 I'se ave be thankful ; 
 VVhae'er draws prizes frae the wheel, 
 
 I maun he blank still. 
 
 The sage divine may mak' a noise 
 About cauld poortith's humble joys ■; 
 13ut let him cast aside the toys 
 
 O' wealth that grieve Iniu 
 Let toil an' hardship be his choice. 
 
 An' V\\ believe him. 
 
 To thee— thou bonny, brilliant tiling ! 
 
 What incense can a poet brin^^ ? 
 
 To thee— thou prophet, priest, an' king 
 
 O' mony a saunt I 
 My muse, grown maughtless, downa sing. 
 
 For perfect want. 
 
 Waes me ,' for ony ragged wight, 
 
 Wha, coinless, through the world maun f^ght: 
 
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 90 
 
 Wlien Dei Gratia lak's iis ilight 
 
 Frac out tli ir K.itry. 
 Niic hoily tloubts the tlc'ils gih i^rlu, 
 
 Even to the iUi\-. 
 
 The cheil, by Nature stam^^ d . euil", 
 VV'i' smerghless sauI an' brainless ro» if, 
 Against rumgumution treble proof, 
 
 Though sense may geek him : 
 VV'i' routh o' siller in his loof, 
 
 Nac priest wad blaik him. 
 
 Far belter be a lordling's tool. 
 Far better dree the miser's dool, 
 On mashlo scones frae yule to yule, 
 
 Than want a shillin : 
 For coinless virtue's ay a snool. 
 
 Or else a villain. 
 
 Ah, will-a-wins ! that lipnest merit 
 Sud toil for bread, an' villains share it ; 
 That man, by sad misfortune herriet, 
 
 Sud ay be cast out — 
 O, thou, unseen, eternal spirit, 
 
 Is this the last o't ? 
 
 If sae, gin we can gather cash, 
 About our sauls we needna fash, 
 A'^or drend auld hornie's iron lash, 
 
 Ji! hell's mark piuitry : 
 
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 lain iK.ncsfy, an' .slc-likc trash, 
 
 Can ne'er rnak gcntiy, 
 
 Ti.oii-ii u,,.. fouk may ablind scunner, 
 At en\-. , malice, an' dishonour; 
 rJain truth but sehlom is a winner, 
 
 Ftir a' its soun^h ; 
 Cin our salvation buy a dinner, 
 
 Its cheap enough. 
 
 I've seen, by dint o' joukrey trade, 
 
 Some chicls wha wad ha'e iley'd the glodr, 
 
 Get their cauld hurdics brawly clad, 
 
 In bien attire ; 
 While truth, unshod, was doom'd to tread, 
 
 Through dub an' mire, 
 
 A conscience is a mere nick-nacket, 
 At best nae worth a rusty tacket ; 
 Clin sellin 't wad procure a jacket. 
 
 Or pair o' shunc, 
 I kenna wha wad e'er gancr naket, 
 As I ha'e June. 
 
 Owre a' the earth tlie qhiel wi' pcnro, 
 (rets credit aye ibr worth an' sense ; 
 But fhielly i' the ale-house s])enae, 
 
 His word's respcck it ; 
 There, honest poortith's sma' pretence 
 
 Is aye neyleckit, 
 
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 71 
 
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 ^5c 
 
 ^\^' 
 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATiON 
 TEST TARGET (MT-S) 
 
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 I.I 
 
 Hf 1^ 12.0 
 
 I: 
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 1.8 
 
 L25 iu ;.6 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 V- 
 
 ^'^A 
 
 
 Ja 
 
 ^ 
 
 z 
 
 % 
 
 ^v 
 
 •^v 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 
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 O well ken I a landlord's worth ! 
 
 Ho laughs to sec our purse come forth ; 
 
 But when misfortune's blue sky'd north 
 
 Is biawn asklent us, 
 lle'Jl leave us sprawlin' i' the earth, 
 
 Nor heed he kent us. 
 
 The puir wanwordy ne'er-do-weel, 
 Whasc cash has llowu like lire frac sLccl, 
 In vain may beg ae dram to sweel 
 
 His birslet craig ; 
 He'll duuk him in a water skecl. 
 
 Like ony vaig. 
 
 Awa' I ye bloodless, heartless pack, 
 Wha peel the ruin'd wan-thrift's back ; 
 Syne turn him out whan tempests black 
 
 Around arc bizzin' ; 
 Shame fa' your sauls ! nae worth a plack, 
 
 The cadger's dozen. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O cold and cheerless is the grove ! 
 
 Its fragrance gone, its beauty dead ; 
 And blighted is the llower of love, 
 That bloom'd beneath its dewy shade. 
 1 may be sad, ev'n for its sake ; 
 Mv ht'art n".uv iswell, it cannot break. 
 
tell me not ! that I may yet 
 
 Forbear to love the faithless- one, 
 That one I never can ^orget ; 
 I i^'annot love as I have done. 
 But though the bloorn of hope is dead, 
 A tear I will not, cannot shed. • 
 
 That she is happier, I will deem, 
 Thdn if her heart had still been mine : 
 
 'Twill be my bosom's dearest dream ; 
 Oh bid me not that dream rcsian 
 
 to • 
 
 I must be sad for Jessy's sake, 
 
 My heart must beat, it will not break. 
 
 Yet, did I think a sigh of mine 
 
 Her bosom's valued peace would break, 
 Ev'n memory's pang I would resign, 
 I would be happy for her sake. 
 My peace is gone, my heart is dead, 
 A tear I will not, cannot shed. 
 
 THE HEATHER. 
 
 Oh fair is the red rose, and sweet its perfuming ! 
 
 And sweet is the daisy that flowers on the lea j 
 But far, on the wild moor, the balm and the bloominir 
 
 Ol fecotia's red heather are dearer to me. 
 'Tis sweet, when the breeze of the evening is blowing, 
 To mark the wild heather its red blossom bhowing : 
 
 i 
 
04 
 
 To wander alone by the hill-hunter's gruvcy 
 Where, sad, in the twilight, the green hrakens wave, 
 
 'Tis sweet, at the dawning, to stray on the mountain. 
 And brush the clear dew from the red heather flower ; 
 
 To wandej" at noon by the glen's mossy fountain, 
 Or rest in the shade of the yellow broom bower. 
 
 01? dear is the heather to memory's bosom ! 
 
 It sheds o er the hills of my fathers its blossom ; 
 
 And dear is the mountain-bird's threnody stave, 
 
 That thrills like the pibroch's wild note o'er their grave. 
 
 Ves, Caledonia, the tales of thy glory 
 
 Recall to my fancy the heroes of yore ! 
 Ah ! where are the warriors renown'd in thy story ? 
 
 They sleep — and the pibroch awakes them no more. 
 Ah I where are the heroes whose blood dyed the heather 
 Of gloomy Culloden ?— They slumber together : 
 Forgotten they sleep, and the dew-water'd blooms 
 Of Scotia's red heather droop over their tombs. 
 
 THE LOVE THAT FADETH NOT. 
 
 There is a tie of holy kind 
 Around the bosom's being twined ; 
 There is a pulse whose gentle throe 
 More dear than passion's reckless How, 
 As flame of holy vestal pure, 
 Unchanged for ever doth endure. 
 Such is the love that fadeth not, 
 That mivv no': cannot be forarot. 
 
95 
 
 It is a dream of heavenly birth, 
 A wish that hath no name on cartn. 
 It doth not burn, it doth not melt ; 
 It is not seen, but it is felt ; 
 It lifts the soul, but lifts it not 
 Above the calm controul ofthought, 
 Such is the love that fadeth not, "^ 
 That may not, cannot be forgot. 
 
 Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear, 
 To true love's bosom ever dear. 
 Love doth a pleasing pang impart, 
 That saddens and refir-s the heart. 
 It is a {eeling given to (ew, 
 For ever warm, for ever true. 
 This is Jie love that fadeth not, 
 That may not, cannot be forgot.