And now she works her mammie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad mak' her weel again. BONNIE JEAN. But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her ee, The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love: "O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me? At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me." Now what could artless Jeanie do? THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chesnut tree With large and sinewy hands, His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. M THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Each burning deed and thought. |