DEATH-CHANT.

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, Wrestling thus with earth and clay? From the body pass away!

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed!
Mary Mother be thy speed!
Saints to help thee at thy need!
Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast!
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee to be gone! Earth flits fast, and time draws on : Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan! Day is near the breaking.

PROUD MAISIE.

Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird!

When shall I marry me?"

"When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry thee."

"Who makes the bridal bed?
Birdie! say truly."

"The grey-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.

"The glowworm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud Lady!”

While the moon drops down the West,

Like thy mate upon her nest,

And the stars before the sun

Melt like snowflakes, one by one,

Let thy loud and welcome lay

Pour along

Few notes, but strong!

EVENING:

Jet-bright Wing! Jet-bright Wing!

Flit across the sunset glade :

Lying there in wait to sing,

Listen with thy head awry,

Keeping time with twinkling eye,

While from all the woodland shade

Birds of every plume and note
Strain the throat,

Till both hill and valley ring,
And the warbled minstrelsy,
Ebbing, flowing, like the sea,

Claims brief interludes from thee!

Then with simple swell and fall,
Breaking beautiful through all,
Let thy Pan-like pipe repeat
Few notes, but sweet!

WINTER LIGHTNING.

The flash at midnight,-'twas a light
That gave the blind a moment's sight,
Then sunk in tenfold gloom;
Loud, deep, and long, the thunder broke,
The deaf ear instantly awoke,

Then closed as in the tomb :

An angel might have pass'd my bed,
Sounded the trump of God, and fled.

So Life appears: a sudden birth,
A glance revealing heaven and earth;
It is, and it is not!

So Fame the poet's hope deceives,
Who sings for after-time, and leaves
A name-to be forgot.

Life is a lightning-flash of breath;
Fame but a thunder-clap at death.

JAMES HOGG.

1772-1835.

TO THE LARK.

Bird of the wilderness!
Blithesome and cumberless,—

Sweet be thy matin, o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness!

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place :

O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,
Far in the downy cloud :

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell, and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the Day, Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical Cherub! soar singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be: Emblem of happiness!

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place:

O to abide in. the desert with thee!

MAGGIE AWAY.

O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggie gangs away?
O what will a' the lads do
When Maggie gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen
That doesna dread the day :

O, what will a' the lads do

When Maggie gangs away?

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't,-
A waefu' wight is he

;

Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,

And laid him down to dee;
And Sandy's gane unto the kirk,

And learnin' fast to pray :

And O, what will the lads do

When Maggie gangs away?

The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw

Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said (in confidence)
The lassie was divine:

And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than any priest should say :
But O! what will the lads do

When Maggie gangs away ?

The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high;

'Twill draw the red-breast frae the wood, The laverock frae the sky;

The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise and join the lay :
And hey! what a day will be
When Maggie gangs away!

CHARLES LAMB.

1775-1834.

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet can I not by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate
That flush'd her spirit: