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An' shared wi' looin' hearts, Birdie! wi' looin hearts

and free,

Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne ;

An' roughest roads to velvet turn,

Trod cheerfully.

We've all our cares and crosses, Birdie! we've a'

our cares an' crosses;

But then to sulk an' sit so glum,

Hout! tout! what guid o' that can come

To mend one's losses?

Ye're clipt in wiry fence, Birdie! ye 're clipt in

wiry fence,

An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang

Upo' a wish, wad be or lang

Wi' friends far hence;

But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie! but what's a

wish, ye ken,

Nae cantrip nag, like hers of Fife,

Who darnit wi' the auld weird wife,
Flood, fell, an' fen.

'T is true ye 're furnished fair, Birdie! 't is true ye 're

furnished fair,

Wi' a braw pair of bonnie wings

Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings

High up i' th' air;

But then that wire 's sae strang, Birdie! but then that

wire 's sae strang!

An' I myself, sae seemin' free,
Nae wings have I to waften me

Whar fain I'd gang.



An' sae we'd baith our wills, Birdie! we'd each our

wilfu' way;

Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly;

An' snares an' pitfa's often lie

Whar wishes stray.

An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie! an' ae thing weel

I wot,

There's ane abune the highest sphere

Wha cares for a' his creatures here,

Marks every lot;

Wha guards the crownéd king, Birdie! wha guards

the crownéd king,

An' taketh heed for sic as me,

Sae little worth,―an' e'en for thee,

Puir witless thing!

Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie! an' sin' we 're

only twa

Aff han'- let's ilk ane do our best,

To ding that crabbit, cankered pest,

Dull care awa'!


HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup doth fill;


'T is filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self 's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough:
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;

Phœbus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;


But, when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.






"HAST thou seen that lordly castle,

That castle by the sea?

Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.



"And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward

In the evening's crimson glow."

"Well have I seen that castle,
That castle by the sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly."

"The winds and the waves of ocean,

Had they a merry chime?

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ?"

"The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly;

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye."

"And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride?

And the wave of their crimson mantles?
And the golden crown of pride?

"Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there,
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?"

"Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe;
No maiden was by their side!"




CASABIANCA. - Mrs. Hemans.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike, form.

The flames rolled on, he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud,

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"Say, father, say

If yet my task is done!"

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone,"-
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.

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