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Thy eggs are cauld, and wat, and dead,
In death's last sleep. I saw thee limping to thy bed,
To mourn and
Thou kept them frae the wind and rain,
Which thou possest ; Baith bird and eggs are dead and gane,
To endless rest.
When thou did'st live, puir murder'd thing, Ilk dewy morn on whirring wing,
Exulting sprang; Then gae'd the moors and mosses ring
Wi' thy glad sang.
Thy mate sits by thee, yet alane,
To life's last goal ;
To cheer thy soul.
The muirland herd was oft thy fear,
At even dark;
Nae mair the foxes' yelp thou'lt hear,
Or colly bark.
The little humble daisy smiled,
Now drops a tear;
Forlorn and drear.
Ah, me! mayhap, in yonder vale,
From hope outcast; And, shiv'ring, tells his woeful tale
Unto the blast.
E'en like to thine the orphan's lot,
In silent gloom;
Out o'er his tomb.
Here, rest in peace, receive a tear,
The dark comes fast; The spark in yonder cot looks drear,
Adieu! and rest.
THERE sat upon the linden-tree
A bird, and sang its strain ;
My heart went back again.
It saw the rose-trees grow,
There cherish'd long ago.
A thousand years to me it seems
Since by thy face I sate,
Was not my choice, but fate :
Nor heard the bird's sweet song;
My griefs been all too long.
THE LINNET'S NEST.
The busy birds with nice selection cull
THE BLUE BIRD.
When Winter's cold tempests and snows are no
more, Green meadows and brown-furrow'd fields
re-appearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes 'are
a-steering; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red glow the maples, so fresh and so
pleasing, O then comes the Blue Bird, the herald of Spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the