Imagens da página
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

BARRY CORNWALL.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue; I LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue !

A SCOTTISH SONG.
What is there left for me to do,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
But fly, - fly

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
From the crnel sky,

If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
And hide in the deepest deeps, -and die ?

Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy !
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

It gricves me sair to see thee weipe. O, WALY, waly up the bank,

When he began to court my luve,
And waly, waly down the brae,

And with his sugred words to muve,
And waly, waly yon burn side,

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, Where I and my love wont to gae.

To me that time did not appeire :
I leaned my back unto an aik,

But now I see, most cruell hee,
I thought it was a trusty tree;

Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
But first it bowed, and syne it brak –

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Sae my true love did lightly me! :

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
A little time while it is new;

And when thou wakest sweitly smile : But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

But smile not, as thy father did,
And fades away like the morning dew.

To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !

But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, O, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.
Or wherefore should I kame my hair ?

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! For my true love has me forsook,

It gricves me sair to sce thee weipe. And says he 'll never love me mair.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

Be luving to thy father stil :
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me; Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

My luve with him maun stil abyde :
Since my true love has forsaken me.

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
And shake the green leaves off the tree ?

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. For of my life I 'm weary.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, "T is not the frost that freezes fell,

To faynings fals thine hart incline ;
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;

Be loyal to thy luver trew, 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

And nevir change hir for a new;
But my love's heart grown cauld to me. If gude or faire, of hir have care,

For women's banning's wonderous sair. When we came in by Glasgow town,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! We were a comely sight to see ;

It gricves me sair to sce thee weipe. My love was clad in the black velvet, And I my sell in cramasie.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, But had I wist, before I kissed,

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; That love had been sae ill to win,

My babe and I'll together live, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

He 'll comfort me when cares doc grieve; And pinned it with a silver pin.

My babe and I right saft will ly,

And quite forget man's cruelty. 0, 0, if my young babe were born,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! And set upon the nurse's knee,

It grievcs me sair to see thec wcipe.
And I my sell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growin' over me !

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
ANONYMους, και

That ever kist a woman's mouth !

I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They 'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to sce thee weipe.

ANONYMOUS.

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my life-strings break !Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break ;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake!
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, -
O, say ye 'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane !
It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ;
But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life, —
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.
O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met, —
O, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
0, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae, And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors]

BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

RESIGNATION.

| But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, and beautiful with all the soul's expansion
But one dead lamb is there!

Shall we behold her face.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The air is full of farewells to the dying, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
And mournings for the dead ;

That cannot be at rest, -
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;.
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions | By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

BURIED TO-DAY.
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

February 23, 1858.
May be heaven's distant lamps.

BURIED to-day.

When the soft green buds are bursting out, There is no Death! What seems so is transition :

And up on the south-wind comes a shout This life of mortal breath

Of village boys and girls at play Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

In the mild spring evening gray. Whose portal we call Death.

Taken away • She is not dead, - the child of our affection, - Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew half their light from him,
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring, - on this spring day.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Passes away,
By guardian angels led,

All the pride of boy-life begun,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, All the hope of life yet to run ;
She lives whom we call dead.

| Who dares to question when One saith “Nay."

Murmur not, — only pray.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

| Enters to-day Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Another body in churchyard sod, . Behold her grown more fair.

Another soul on the life in God.

| His Christ was buried - and lives alway: Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken | Trust Him, and go your way.

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though un-

spoken,
May reach her where she lives.

UNVEIL THY BOSOM, FAITHFUL TOMB. Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

UNVEIL thy bosom, faithful tomb; For when with raptures wild

Take this new treasure to thy trust, In our embraces we again enfold her,

And give these sacred relics room She will not be a child :

To slumber in the silent dust.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,

LINES
Invade thy bounds ; no mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,

TO THE MEMORY OF “ANNIE,” WHO DIED AT MILAN,

JUNE 6, 1860. While angels watch the soft repose.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou ! whom seek

est thou ! She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, So Jesus slept; God's dying Son

Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid
Passed through the grave, and blest the bed : hiin." — JOHN XX. 15.
Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne

In the fair gardens of celestial peace
The morning break, and pierce the shade. Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
Break from his throne, illustrious morn;
Attend, O carth, his sovereign word ;

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Restore thy trust; a glorious form

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; DR. ISAAC WATTS.

And when he walks, each floweret to his will

With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

[blocks in formation]
« AnteriorContinuar »