Слике страница
[graphic][merged small]

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 hé,
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.



[ocr errors]

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


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.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair.

Then oh, wonder not that her heart,
From all else would rather part,

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start !

W. C. Bennett



It beams on every tree,
The cattle in the meadows,
The flower on the lea ;
The morning sky is golden,

And silver streamlets run-
A thousand birds are singing,

To welcome in the sun.
And in the balmy hayfield

The swarthy mowers stand,
Their brows all red and glowing,

The sharp scythe in the hand;
And soon will come the harvest,

The sheaf in triumph borne,
For sunshine's on the hill-side,

And ripening the corn.
The hills and trees and hedgerows,

The smoothly-shaven lawn,
The ripple on the waters

Are golden in the dawn;

There's not a lowly cottage,

A castle or a hall,
But wears a garb of beauty,

For the sunshine's over all,

It gleams upon the window,

It bursts into the room,
It lights the needle's labour,

And shines upon the loom ;
It brings in joy and gladness,

And little children run
From street and lane and alley

To gambol in the sun.

The heart is braver, truer,

And lighter is the tread,
The faith is deeper, stronger

When the sun shines overhead ;
Then while we roam the meadows,

And summer flowers twine,
Let's thank the bounteous Heaven
That makes the sun to shine.

G. R. Emerson.


HOSE evening bells ! those evening bells !

How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime !


Those joyous hours are passed away ;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

« ПретходнаНастави »