And will ye muzzle the free-born,

The man, the owner of the sod, Who "gives the grazing ox his meat," And you- his servants here—your seat?

There's a cloud, blackening up the sky! East, west, and north its curtain spreads;

Lift to its muttering folds your eye!
Beware! for bursting on your heads,
It hath a force to bear you down;-
'Tis an insulted people's frown.

Ye may have heard of the Soultán,
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidán,

He barred, and fired; and their death-
yell

Went to the stars, and their blood ran
In brooks across the Atmeidán.

The despot spake; and, in one night, The deed was done. He wields, alone, The sceptre of the Ottomite,

And brooks no brother near his throne.

Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck;

Yet will he, in his saddle, stoopI've seen him, in his palace-yardTo take petitions from a troop

Of women, who, behind his guard, Come up, their several suits to press, To state their wrongs, and ask redress.

159

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

[1798 - 1835.]

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel,

'T was then we twa did part;

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve !
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!

scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

"T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

shed,

Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin cheek, loof locked in loof,

What our wee heads could think?
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The scule then skail't at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee.

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

and sup;

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestry— There's living roses on the bush,

161

And blossoms on the tree. Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet.

'T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run;
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers:
Then, lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, -
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,

All up,-all up!

Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.