THE SHEPHERD'S SON.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,

And Colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound; The shadow of our trysting bush, It wears sae slowly round.

My sheep-bell tinkles from the west, My lambs are bleating near;

But still the sound that I lo❜e best Alack! I canna hear.

O no! sad and slow!

The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill with clacking din; And Lucky scolding frae her door, To bring the bairnies in.

O no sad and slow!

These are nae sounds for me;

The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sae drearilie.

THE SHEPHERD'S SON.

I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam,

To tie it round her brow.

O no! sad and slow!

The time it winna pass; The shadow of that weary thorn Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!
She's past the witches' knowe;
She's climbing up the brownie's brae:
My heart is in a lowe!

O no! 'tis not so!

'Tis glaumrie I hae seen;

The shadow of the hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book of grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Colley barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.

O no! sad and slow!

The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow of the trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAillie.

THE LORELEI.

I KNOW not what it presages, This heart with sadness fraught: "Tis a tale of the olden ages,

That will not from my thought.

The air grows cool, and darkles;
The Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit sparkles
In the light of the setting sun.

There sits, in soft reclining,

A maiden wondrous fair,
With golden raiment shining,
And combing her golden hair.

With a comb of gold she combs it;
And combing, low singeth she
A song of a strange, sweet sadness,
A wonderful melody.

The sailor shudders, as o'er him The strain comes floating by ; He sees not the cliffs before him, He only looks on high.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

Ah! round him the dark waves, flinging
Their arms, draw him slowly down;
And this, with her wild, sweet singing,
The Lorelei has done.

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,

As I could do, but only more.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me to the supper go,
A silken wonder by my side,
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm,

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load, And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore

Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door,

In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold

As the bright smiles he sees me win,

Nor the host's oldest wine so old

As our poor gabble

watery, thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance

By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance, The galley-slave of dreary forms.