Morning

PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day
With night we banish sorrow,
Sweet air blow soft, mount Lark aloft
To give my Love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the Lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each hill, let music shrill,
Give my fair Love good-morrow :
Black-bird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow.
To give my Love good-morrow
Sing birds in every furrow.

T. HEYWOOD.

Death the Leveller

THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate ;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now,

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

Annan Water

ANNAN Water's wading deep,

J. SHIRLEY.

And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am loath she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony.

He's loupen on his bonny gray,

He rode the right gate and the ready;
For all the storm he wadna stay,
For seeking of his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell,

Through moor, and moss, and many a mire;
His spurs of steel were sair to bide,
And from her four feet flew the fire.

My bonny gray, now play your part !
If ye be the steed that wins my dearie,
With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,

And never spur shall make you wearie.'

The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare;
But when she wan the Annan Water,
She could not have ridden the ford that night
Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

'O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,
Put off your boat for golden money!'
But for all the gold in fair Scotland,
He dared not take him through to Annie

'OI was sworn so late yestreen,
Not by a single oath, but mony!
I'll cross the drumly stream to-night,
Or never could I face my honey.'

The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
From bank to brae the water pouring;
The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,
For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.
He spurr'd her forth into the flood,

I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!

To a Waterfowl

UNKNOWN.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,--

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

W. C. BRYANT.

So, We'll Go no More a Roving

I

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

Song

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I :

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch, when owls do cry :

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

BYRON.

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands :

Courtsied when you have and kiss'd

The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.

The watch-dogs bark :
Bow-wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow !

SHAKESPEARE.

The Land o' the Leal

I'M wearin' awa', Jean,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
O we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

LADY NAIRNE,