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Across the dried brook's course she went,
Singing lowly, smiling slowly,
amid the drouth espied
UT homeward coming all the way,
She knew the bent wheat withering lay, She saw the blossoms' dry decay, She missed the little brooklet's play. A breeze had sprung from out the south,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly; She only felt the burning drouth, Her eyes were hot, and parched her mouthYet sweet the wind blew from the south !
And when the wind brought welcome rain,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly; She never saw the lifting grain, But only—a lone orchard lane, Where she had waited all in vain !
THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.
HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin',
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the briar, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom !
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain : And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower of
Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening ;
Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie !
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi’ sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum
blane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
THE MOSS ROSE.
HE angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ;
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
THE BETTER LAND.
HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ?
Not there; not there, my child. Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?
Not there ; not there, my child. Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral
Not there; not there, my child.
THE HARVEST GLEANING.
IS fifty years, next harvest moon.
How fondly I remember,
Dear wife, that sunny afternoon,
(Soft shadows intervening)
While in the harvest gleaning.
My gaze to thee was turning;
In every vein was burning!
Thy gentle voice in song I heard
Śweet as the dove's at e’ening; And all my soul in rapture stirred
While in the harvest gleaning.
In seas of rosy splendour;
A presence warm and tender;
Dear wife, how full their meaning !
After that harvest gleaning.
And such sweet harvest weather-
In love's bright bonds together;
Still on my bosom leaning,
Since that old harvest gleaning ?
Our pleasure and our sorrow;
Till one soon-coming morrow;
From earth our fancies weaning,