The world is cruel, the world is untrue; From the cruel sky, And hide in the deepest deeps, - and die? BARRY CORNWALL. WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. O, WALY, waly up the bank, I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; O, waly, waly, but love be bonny, And fades away like the morning dew. O, wherefore should I busk my head? And says he 'll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me; Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I'm weary. "T is not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, O, O, if my young babe were born, ANONYMOUS, LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. A SCOTTISH SONG. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I cannae chuse, but ever will Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warned by mee, ANONYMOUS. MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. My heid is like to rend, Willie, O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, It's vain to comfort me, Willie, Sair grief maun ha'e its will; I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, Ay, press your hand upon my heart, O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, O, wae's me for the time, Willie, That our first tryst was set! O, dinna mind my words, Willie, I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 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 A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, Thy brow ere we twa pairt. How fast my life-strings break! The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, And this green turf we 're sittin' on, But O, remember me, Willie, On land where'er ye be; That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 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! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, 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 that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; In his spring, on this spring day. CALM ON THE BOSOM OF THY GOD. | Two lips still breathing love, Not wrath, nor fears": So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! DINAH MARIA MULOCK. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS, WHEN the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |