Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; From the sky the sun benignant THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S FAREWELL TO HIS CHILD. HE breeze whistles fresh above us, the swift tide runneth below; TH The ship, they tell me, is waiting-is waiting, and I must go; For I earn my bread on the waters-on the stormtossed, treacherous main ; I'll be back in a year, my darling, when the roses bloom again. A year;-full many a sailor, ere the year is over, shall sleep, With a boulder of rock for a pillow, in the tangle weed, fathoms deep. Back in a year, my darling,—the words are quickly said, But the storm will be up and doing, and the sea will have its dead. What then? Who die in their duty die well, and are in His hand. "We're as near to heaven," said the brave man, "by sea as we are by land." E'en then we shall have a meeting, and no more parting and pain,— When both are at rest on the Father's breast, and the roses bloom again. H. W. Dulcken. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. ND are ye sure the news is true? AN And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, For there's nae luck about th' house, And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown And mak their shoon as black as slaes, It's a' to please my ain gudeman, There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, But what puts parting in my head? The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae no mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, For there's nae luck about th' house, There's little pleasure in th' house When our gudeman's awa. Mickle. G GO, LOVELY ROSE! O, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her, that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That, hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! Waller. |