159

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

[1798 - 1835.]

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

"T was then we luvit ilk ither weel,

'T was then we twa did part;

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!

scule,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

bands;

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return!
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense tires shall cease to burn!
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

W. A. MUHLENBERG.

[U. S. A.]

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented doine, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings.
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through;
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

LADY DUFFERIN.

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163

bowed his head;

O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night,

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight,

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers

arise

To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies.

Who, who would live alway, away from his God,

Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,

Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,

And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,

Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,

While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,

And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?

That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on

my ear!

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold,

The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! O, give me, O, give me the wings of a dove! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above:

Ay! 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar,

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore.

LADY DUFFERIN.

[1807-1867.]

THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side

On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The day's as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your warm breath on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You nevermore may speak.

Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The village church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
Where I've laid you, darling, down to
sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times less fair.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH

PRAED.

[1801-1839.]

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,-
Years, years ago, while all my joys

Were in my fowling-piece and filly;
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a county ball;

There, when the sound of flute and fiddle