Strong as the arms of a giant, yet tender,
See what a treasure they lift to the sky!
Take your red roses, aflame with their splendour,
We love the apple-trees, robin and I.

Hark! how the joyous bird, flashing and glowing,
Trills his clear whistle, so mellow and wild,
Where, o'er the tops, with a lavish bestowing,
Drift upon drift, the sweet blossoms are piled.

Where is the lip that has worthily sung them?
Tinted like sea-shells, or whiter than snow.
Bees, all the day, as they linger among them,
Drowsy with nectar, are murmuring low.

Pillowed beneath them, I dream, as I listen,

How the long summer above them shall shine,
Till on the boughs the ripe fruitage shall glisten,
Tawny and golden, or redder than wine.

In the bright days of the mellow September,
How we shall shout as we gather them in,
Hoarding their wealth for the chilly December,
Heaping them high in the cellar and bin.

Then, when the snow in the moonlight is gleaming,
Out from the darkness the apples we'll bring,
Praising their sweets, where the firelight's beaming;
Globes of rich nectar, a poet might sing.

Tales of the glowing south lips may be telling;
Yet, when the legends are done, we shall say,
"Here's to the land where the summer is dwelling;
Here's to the apple-tree, monarch of May!"

W

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame,

And a' the warld to rest are gane;

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
Unkent by my gudeman who sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride;

But saving a crown-piece, he had naething beside; To mak the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea; And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.

He hadna been gone a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away;

My mither she fell sick-my Jamie at the sea-
And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.

My father couldna work, and my mither couldna spin;

I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,

Said, "Jennie, oh, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?"

My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
The ship was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?

My father urged me sair: my mither didna speak;
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to

break;

They gied him my hand-my heart was in the seaAnd so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee.”

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I gied him a kiss, and bade him gang awa’:
I wish that I were dead! but I'm nae to dee;
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, Wae
is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and carena much to spin;
I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,

For oh, Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

Lady Anne Barnard.

OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR

O

HEADS?

H! where do fairies hide their heads,
When snow lies on the hills-

When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot trip

In circles o'er the plain;

And draughts of dew they cannot sip,
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells,
They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius,

Carousals they maintain;

And cheer their little spirits thus,
Till green leaves come again.

When they return there will be mirth,
And music in the air,

And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.

The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain ;

No keyhole will be fairy-proof,

When green leaves come again.

T. Haynes Bayly

O

BABY'S SHOES.

H, those little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use.
Oh, the price were high

That those shoes would buy,

Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good-will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And oh, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That dear little treasure,

And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her for evermore,
Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.