O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon) When we ran off to speel the braes, The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads
The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat,
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trickled doun your cheek

Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blesséd time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way,

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,

I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygane days and me!

THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

FAIR INES.

O SAW ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,

And rob the world of rest:

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the Moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalled bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whispered thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore ;

It would have been a beauteous dream
-If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With Music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad, and felt no mirth,

But only Music's wrong,

In sounds that sang, Farewell, Farewell,

To her you've loved so long.

LINES

ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN THE SAME CHAMBER.

And has the earth lost its so spacious round,

The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heaven-my universe of love!
All that my God can give me, or remove,
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.
Sweet that in this small compass I behove
To live their living and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that with one common sigh
We might resign all mundane care and strife,
And seek together that transcendent sky,

Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!

COBLENTZ, November, 1835.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

1807.

TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME.

O STERN, yet lovely monitress,

Thine eye should be of colder hue,

And on thy neck a paler tress

Should toy among those veins of blue!
For thou art to thy mission true,

An angel clad in human guise;
But sinners sometimes have such eyes,

And braid for love such tresses too;

And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven,
I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven!

Night comes, with love upon the breeze,
And the calm clock strikes, stilly, “Ten."
I start to hear it beat, for then
I know that thou art on thy knees,
And, at that hour, where'er thou be,
Ascends to heaven a prayer for me!
My heart drops to its bended knee,
The mirth upon my lip is dumb;
Yet, as a thought of heaven would come,
There glides, before it, one of thee:

Thou, in thy white dress, kneeling there!

I fear I could leave heaven to see thee at thy prayer!