EVENING

THE Sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song;
The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.

The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart;

And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side

Twitters his closing song—

All meet whom day and care divide,—
But Leonard tarries long!

SIR W. SCOTT.

SONG

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, 'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'

In behint yon auld fail' dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

6

His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate,

So we may make our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en :

Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whae he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.'