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The world is cruel, the world is untrue; I LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
A SCOTTISH SONG.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
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 with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, Where I and my love wont to gae.
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
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,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile : But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,
But smile not, as thy father did,
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.
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
Be luving to thy father stil :
My luve with him maun stil abyde :
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
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 ;
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,
And nevir change hir for a new;
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.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth !
I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
0, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame;
And dree a warld's shame!
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,
Or be as I should be.
The heart that still is thine,
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 dyin' for your sake!
Your hand on my briest-bane, -
When I am deid and gane !
Sair grief maun ha'e its will ;
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me shed by your hair,
I never sall see mair!
For the last time in my life, —
A mither, yet nae wife.
And press it mair and mair,
Sae strang is its despair.
When we thegither met, —
That our first tryst was set !
Where we were wont to gae, And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae !
BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.
| But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace ;
Shall we behold her face.
And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
That cannot be at rest, -
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay ;.
The grief that must have way.
Assume this dark disguise.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;
February 23, 1858.
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,
In his spring, - on this spring day.
All the pride of boy-life begun,
| Who dares to question when One saith “Nay."
Murmur not, — only pray.
| 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,
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,
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
In the fair gardens of celestial peace
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
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.