 | Solitary hours |  |
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16
GRACIOUS RAIN.
The east wind had whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of grey,
Look'd sullenly down on the plain.
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of grey,
Look'd sullenly down on the plain.
The butterfly folded her wings as if dead,
Or awaked ere the full destined time;
Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head
Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime.
Or awaked ere the full destined time;
Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head
Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime.
I, too, shrank and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth,
The cold heaven with comfortless looks:
And I listen'd in vain for the summer birds' mirth,
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks.
The cold heaven with comfortless looks:
And I listen'd in vain for the summer birds' mirth,
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks.
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But, lo! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt
A few tears from a low-sailing cloud;
Large and few they descended—then thicken'd—then stopt,
Then pour'd down abundant and loud.
A few tears from a low-sailing cloud;
Large and few they descended—then thicken'd—then stopt,
Then pour'd down abundant and loud.
O, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound,
That succeeded that soft gracious rain!
With laughter and singing the valleys rang round,
And the little hills shouted again.
That succeeded that soft gracious rain!
With laughter and singing the valleys rang round,
And the little hills shouted again.
The wind sank away like a sleeping child's breath,
The pavilion of clouds was upfurl'd;
And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death,
Smiled out on this beautiful world.
The pavilion of clouds was upfurl'd;
And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death,
Smiled out on this beautiful world.
On this “beautiful world,” such a change had been wrought
By these few blessed drops. Oh! the same
On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, methought,
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.
By these few blessed drops. Oh! the same
On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, methought,
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.
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If a few virtuous tears by the merciful shed,
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain
That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain
That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.
And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven,
Might chase the dark clouds of despair;
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven,
Might gush out and soften all there.
Might chase the dark clouds of despair;
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven,
Might gush out and soften all there.
Oh! to work such a change—By God's grace to recall
A poor soul from the death-sleep! To this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss?
A poor soul from the death-sleep! To this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss?
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“I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY.”
I never cast a flower away,
The gift of one who cared for me—
A little flower—a faded flower—
But it was done reluctantly.
The gift of one who cared for me—
A little flower—a faded flower—
But it was done reluctantly.
I never look'd a last adieu
To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain,
Even from their lifelessness to part.
To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain,
Even from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word “Farewell,”
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.
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THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
My child was beautiful and brave!
An opening flower of spring!
He moulders in a distant grave,
A cold forgotten thing.
Forgotten!—Ay, by all but me,
As e'en the best beloved must be—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
An opening flower of spring!
He moulders in a distant grave,
A cold forgotten thing.
Forgotten!—Ay, by all but me,
As e'en the best beloved must be—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
Methinks 't had been a comfort now
To have caught his parting breath—
Had I been near, from his damp brow
To wipe the dews of death—
With one long ling'ring kiss to close
His eyelids for the last repose—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
To have caught his parting breath—
Had I been near, from his damp brow
To wipe the dews of death—
With one long ling'ring kiss to close
His eyelids for the last repose—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
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I little thought such wish to prove,
When, cradled on my breast,
With all a mother's cautious love
His sleeping lids I prest.
Alas, alas! his dying head
Was pillow'd on a colder bed—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
When, cradled on my breast,
With all a mother's cautious love
His sleeping lids I prest.
Alas, alas! his dying head
Was pillow'd on a colder bed—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
They told me Vict'ry's laurels wreath'd
His youthful temples round—
That “Vict'ry!” from his lips was breathed,
The last exulting sound—
Cold comfort to a mother's ear,
That long'd his living voice to hear—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
His youthful temples round—
That “Vict'ry!” from his lips was breathed,
The last exulting sound—
Cold comfort to a mother's ear,
That long'd his living voice to hear—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
E'en so thy gallant father died,
When thou, poor orphan child!
A helpless prattler at my side,
My widow'd grief beguiled.
But now, bereaved of all in thee,
What earthly voice shall comfort me?—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
When thou, poor orphan child!
A helpless prattler at my side,
My widow'd grief beguiled.
But now, bereaved of all in thee,
What earthly voice shall comfort me?—
Farewell, farewell, my dearest!
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MY EVENING.
Farewell, bright Sun! mine eyes have watch'd
Thine hour of waning light;
And tender twilight! fare-thee-well—
And welcome star-crown'd night!
Thine hour of waning light;
And tender twilight! fare-thee-well—
And welcome star-crown'd night!
Pale! serious! silent! with deep spell
Lulling the heart to rest:
As lulls the mother's low sweet song,
The infant on her breast.
Lulling the heart to rest:
As lulls the mother's low sweet song,
The infant on her breast.
Mine own beloved hour!—mine own!
Sacred to quiet thought,
To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys,
With no false lustre fraught!
Sacred to quiet thought,
To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys,
With no false lustre fraught!
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Mine own beloved hour! for now,
Methinks, with garish day
I shut the world out, and with those
Long lost, or far away,
Methinks, with garish day
I shut the world out, and with those
Long lost, or far away,
The dead, the absent, once again
My soul holds converse free—
To such illusions, Life! how dull
Thy best reality!
My soul holds converse free—
To such illusions, Life! how dull
Thy best reality!
The vernal nights are chilly yet,
And cheerily and bright
The hearth still blazes, flashing round
Its ruddy flick'ring light.
And cheerily and bright
The hearth still blazes, flashing round
Its ruddy flick'ring light.
“Bring in the lamp—so—set it there,
Just show its veiled ray
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone),
Falls on my book—and—stay—
Just show its veiled ray
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone),
Falls on my book—and—stay—
“Leave my work by me”—Well I love
The needle's useful art;
'Tis unambitious—womanly—
And mine's a woman's heart.
The needle's useful art;
'Tis unambitious—womanly—
And mine's a woman's heart.
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Not that I ply with sempstress rage,
As if for life, or bread;
No, sooth to say—unconsciously
Slackening the half-drawn thread,
As if for life, or bread;
No, sooth to say—unconsciously
Slackening the half-drawn thread,
From fingers that (as spell-bound) stop,
Pointing the needle wrong,
Mine eyes towards the open book
Stray oft, and tarry long.
Pointing the needle wrong,
Mine eyes towards the open book
Stray oft, and tarry long.
“Stop, stop! Leave open the glass-door
Into that winter bower;”
For soon therein th' uprisen moon
Will pour her silvery shower;
Into that winter bower;”
For soon therein th' uprisen moon
Will pour her silvery shower;
Will glitter on those glossy leaves;
On that white pavement shine:
And dally with her eastern love,
That wreathing jessamine.
On that white pavement shine:
And dally with her eastern love,
That wreathing jessamine.
“Thanks, Lizzy! No; there's nothing more
Thy loving zeal can do;
Only—Oh yes!—that gipsy flower,
Set that beside me too.”—
Thy loving zeal can do;
Only—Oh yes!—that gipsy flower,
Set that beside me too.”—
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“That Ethiop, in its china vase?”—
“Ay; set it here;—that's right.
Shut the door after you.”—'Tis done;
I'm settled for the night.
“Ay; set it here;—that's right.
Shut the door after you.”—'Tis done;
I'm settled for the night.
Settled and snug;—and first, as if
The fact to ascertain,
I glance around, and stir the fire,
And trim the lamp again.
The fact to ascertain,
I glance around, and stir the fire,
And trim the lamp again.
Then, dusky flower! I stoop t' inhale
Thy fragrance. Thou art one
That wooeth not the vulgar eye,
Nor the broad staring sun:
Thy fragrance. Thou art one
That wooeth not the vulgar eye,
Nor the broad staring sun:
Therefore I love thee!—(Selfish love
Such preference may be;)
That thou reservest all thy sweets,
Coy thing! for night and me.
Such preference may be;)
That thou reservest all thy sweets,
Coy thing! for night and me.
What sound was that? Ah, Madam Puss!
I know that tender mew—
That meek, white face—those sea-green eyes—
Those whiskers, wet with dew,
I know that tender mew—
That meek, white face—those sea-green eyes—
Those whiskers, wet with dew,
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To the cold glass—the greenhouse glass—
Press'd closely from without;
Well, thou art heard—I'll let thee in,
Though skulking home, no doubt,
Press'd closely from without;
Well, thou art heard—I'll let thee in,
Though skulking home, no doubt,
From lawless prowl.—Ah, ruthless cat!
What evil hast thou done?
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye
Of open day that shun?
What evil hast thou done?
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye
Of open day that shun?
What! not a feather pluck'd to-night?
Is that what thou wouldst tell
With that soft pur, those winking eyes,
And waving tail?—Well, well,
Is that what thou wouldst tell
With that soft pur, those winking eyes,
And waving tail?—Well, well,
I know thee, friend!—But get thee in,
By Ranger stretch and doze;
Nay, never growl, old man! her tail
Just whisk'd across thy nose.
By Ranger stretch and doze;
Nay, never growl, old man! her tail
Just whisk'd across thy nose.
But 'twas no act premeditate,
Thy greatness to molest:
Then, with that long luxurious sigh,
Sink down again to rest;
Thy greatness to molest:
Then, with that long luxurious sigh,
Sink down again to rest;
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But not before one loving look
Toward me, with that long sigh,
Says, “Mistress mine! all's right, all's well!
Thou'rt there, and here am I!”—
Toward me, with that long sigh,
Says, “Mistress mine! all's right, all's well!
Thou'rt there, and here am I!”—
That point at rest, we're still again.
I on my work intent;
At least, with poring eyes thereon,
In seeming earnest bent:
I on my work intent;
At least, with poring eyes thereon,
In seeming earnest bent:
And fingers, nimble at their task,
Mechanically true;
Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while,
My thoughts are travelling to!
Mechanically true;
Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while,
My thoughts are travelling to!
Now far from earth—now over earth,
Travèrsing lands and seas;—
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood,
Such idle rhymes as these;—
Travèrsing lands and seas;—
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood,
Such idle rhymes as these;—
Now dwelling on departed days—
Ah! that's no lightsome mood;—
On those to come—no longer now
Through Hope's bright focus view'd.
Ah! that's no lightsome mood;—
On those to come—no longer now
Through Hope's bright focus view'd.
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On that which is—ay, there I pause,
No more in young delight;
But patient, grateful, well assured,
“Whatever is, is right!”
No more in young delight;
But patient, grateful, well assured,
“Whatever is, is right!”
And all to be is in His hands—
Oh, who would take it thence?
Give me not up to mine own will,
Merciful Providence!
Oh, who would take it thence?
Give me not up to mine own will,
Merciful Providence!
Such thought, when other thoughts, may be,
Are darkening into gloom,
Comes to me like the angel shape,
That, standing by the tomb,
Are darkening into gloom,
Comes to me like the angel shape,
That, standing by the tomb,
Cheer'd those who came to sorrow there.—
And then I see, and bless
His love in all that he withholds,
And all I still possess.
And then I see, and bless
His love in all that he withholds,
And all I still possess.
So varied—now with book, or work,
Or pensive reverie,
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights,
Or scribbling vein, may be;
Or pensive reverie,
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights,
Or scribbling vein, may be;
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Or eke the pencil's cunning craft,
Or lowly murmur'd lay
To the according viola—
Calm evening slips away.
Or lowly murmur'd lay
To the according viola—
Calm evening slips away.
The felt-shod hours move swiftly on,
Until the stroke of ten
(The accustom'd signal) summons round
My little household. Then,
Until the stroke of ten
(The accustom'd signal) summons round
My little household. Then,
The door unclosing, enters first
That aged faithful friend,
Whose prayer is with her Master's child
Her blameless days to end.
That aged faithful friend,
Whose prayer is with her Master's child
Her blameless days to end.
The younger pair come close behind;
But her dear hand alone—
(Her dear old hand! now tremulous
With palsying weakness grown)—
But her dear hand alone—
(Her dear old hand! now tremulous
With palsying weakness grown)—
Must rev'rently before me place
The Sacred Book. 'Tis there—
And all our voices, all our hearts,
Unite in solemn prayer.
The Sacred Book. 'Tis there—
And all our voices, all our hearts,
Unite in solemn prayer.
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In praise and thanksgiving, for all
The blessings of the light;
In prayer, that He would keep us through
The watches of the night.
The blessings of the light;
In prayer, that He would keep us through
The watches of the night.
A simple rite! and soon perform'd;
Leaving, in every breast,
A heart more fittingly prepared
For sweet, untroubled rest.
Leaving, in every breast,
A heart more fittingly prepared
For sweet, untroubled rest.
And so we part.—But not before,
Dear nurse! a kiss from thee
Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night!
To God commending me!
Dear nurse! a kiss from thee
Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night!
To God commending me!
Amen!—And may His angels keep
Their watch around thy bed,
And guard from every hurtful thing
That venerable head!
Their watch around thy bed,
And guard from every hurtful thing
That venerable head!
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FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS.
Oh! wear no mourning weeds for me,
When I am laid i' the ground!
Oh! shed no tears for one whose sleep
Will then be sweet and sound!
When I am laid i' the ground!
Oh! shed no tears for one whose sleep
Will then be sweet and sound!
Only, my friends! do this for me,—
Pluck many a pale primrose,
And strew them on my shroud, before
The coffin-lid they close.
Pluck many a pale primrose,
And strew them on my shroud, before
The coffin-lid they close.
And lay the heart's-ease on my breast,
(Meet emblem there 'twill be,)
And gently place in my cold hand
A sprig of rosemary.
(Meet emblem there 'twill be,)
And gently place in my cold hand
A sprig of rosemary.
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And by the buried bones of those
Whom living I loved best;
See me at last laid quietly—
Then leave me to my rest.
Whom living I loved best;
See me at last laid quietly—
Then leave me to my rest.
And when the church-bell tolls for me
Its last, long, hollow knell;
As the deep murmur dies away,
Bid me a kind farewell.
Its last, long, hollow knell;
As the deep murmur dies away,
Bid me a kind farewell.
And, stay—Methinks there's something yet
I'd fain request of ye;
Something—I'd bid ye comfort, keep,
Or love, for love of me.
I'd fain request of ye;
Something—I'd bid ye comfort, keep,
Or love, for love of me.
My nurse!—Oh! she will only wait
Till I am fast asleep,
Then close beside me, stealthily,
To her own pillow creep.
Till I am fast asleep,
Then close beside me, stealthily,
To her own pillow creep.
My dog!—Poor fellow! Let him not
Know hunger—hardship—wrong—
But he is old and feeble too,
He will not miss me long.
Know hunger—hardship—wrong—
But he is old and feeble too,
He will not miss me long.
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My dwelling!—That will pass away
To those, when I am gone,
Will raze the lowly edifice
To its foundation-stone.
To those, when I am gone,
Will raze the lowly edifice
To its foundation-stone.
My flowers!—That in deep loneliness
Have been as friends to me—
My garden!—That, let run to waste,
A common field will be.
Have been as friends to me—
My garden!—That, let run to waste,
A common field will be.
My picture!—That's already yours—
Resemblance true, ye say:
Oh, true indeed!—A thing of dust,
That vanisheth away!
Resemblance true, ye say:
Oh, true indeed!—A thing of dust,
That vanisheth away!
My harp!—But that's a fairy gift
I can bequeath to none—
Unearthly hands will take it back
When the last strain is done.
I can bequeath to none—
Unearthly hands will take it back
When the last strain is done.
So then, I've nothing more to ask,
And little left to give;
And yet I know, in your kind hearts
My memory will live.
And little left to give;
And yet I know, in your kind hearts
My memory will live.
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And so farewell, my dear good friends!
And farewell, world, to thee—
I part with some in love—with all
In peace and charity.
And farewell, world, to thee—
I part with some in love—with all
In peace and charity.
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FAREWELL TO GREECE.
Farewell for ever, classic land
Of tyrants and of slaves!
My homeward path lies far away
Over the dark blue waves:
Of tyrants and of slaves!
My homeward path lies far away
Over the dark blue waves:
And when I go, no marble fanes
From myrtle steeps arise,
Nor shineth there such fervid suns
From such unclouded skies.
From myrtle steeps arise,
Nor shineth there such fervid suns
From such unclouded skies.
But yet, the earth of that dear land
Is holier earth to me,
Than thine, immortal Marathon!
Or thine, Thermopylæ!
Is holier earth to me,
Than thine, immortal Marathon!
Or thine, Thermopylæ!
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For there my fathers' ashes rest,
And living hearts there be—
Warm living hearts, and loving ones,
That still remember me.
And living hearts there be—
Warm living hearts, and loving ones,
That still remember me.
And, oh! the land that welcometh
To one such bosom shrine,
Though all beside were ruin'd—lost—
That land would still be mine.
To one such bosom shrine,
Though all beside were ruin'd—lost—
That land would still be mine.
Ay, mine!—albeit the breath of life
Not there I breathed first—
Ay, mine!—albeit with barrenness
And polar darkness curst.
Not there I breathed first—
Ay, mine!—albeit with barrenness
And polar darkness curst.
The bird that wanders all day long,
At sunset seeks her nest:
I've wander'd long—my native land!
Now take me to thy rest.
At sunset seeks her nest:
I've wander'd long—my native land!
Now take me to thy rest.
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TO MY BIRDIE.
Here's only you an' me, Birdie! here's only you an me!
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl!
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl—
Sour companie!
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl!
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl—
Sour companie!
Sing me a little sang, Birdie! lilt up a little lay!
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye
To stun them with yere minstrelsie
The lee-lang day;
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye
To stun them with yere minstrelsie
The lee-lang day;
An' now we're only twa, Birdie! an' now we're only twa;
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie!
To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie,
Dull Care awa'.
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie!
To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie,
Dull Care awa'.
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Ye ken, when folks are pair'd, Birdie! ye ken, when folks are pair'd,
Life's fair, an' foul and freakish weather,
An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither
Maun a' be shared;
Life's fair, an' foul and freakish weather,
An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither
Maun a' be shared;
An' shared wi' lovin' hearts, Birdie! wi' lovin' hearts an' free;
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne,
An' roughest roads to velvet turn,
Trod cheerfully.
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne,
An' roughest roads to velvet turn,
Trod cheerfully.
We've a' our cares an' crosses, Birdie! we've a' our cares an' crosses,
But then to sulk an' sit sae glum—
Hout! tout!—what guid o' that can come
To mend ane's losses?
But then to sulk an' sit sae glum—
Hout! tout!—what guid o' that can come
To mend ane's losses?
Ye're clipt in wiry fence, Birdie! ye're clipt in wiry fence;
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang
Wi' frien's far hence:
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang
Wi' frien's far hence:
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But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie! but what's a wish, ye ken?
Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife,
Wha darnit wi' the auld weird wife,
Flood, fell, an' fen.
Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife,
Wha darnit wi' the auld weird wife,
Flood, fell, an' fen.
'Tis true, ye're furnish'd fair, Birdie! 'tis true, ye're furnish'd fair,
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings,
Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings,
High up i' th' air;
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings,
Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings,
High up i' th' air;
But then that wire's sae strang, Birdie! but then that wire's sae strang!
An' I mysel' sae seemin' free—
Nae wings have I to waften me
Whar fain I'd gang.
An' I mysel' sae seemin' free—
Nae wings have I to waften me
Whar fain I'd gang.
An' say we'd baith our wills, Birdie! we'd each our wilfu' way:
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly;
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie
Whar wishes stray.
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly;
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie
Whar wishes stray.
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An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie! an' ae thing weel I wot—
There's Ane abune the highest sphere,
Wha cares for a' His creatures here,
Marks ev'ry lot;
There's Ane abune the highest sphere,
Wha cares for a' His creatures here,
Marks ev'ry lot;
Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie! wha guards the crowned king,
An' taketh heed for sic as me—
Sae little worth—an' e'en for thee,
Puir witless thing!
An' taketh heed for sic as me—
Sae little worth—an' e'en for thee,
Puir witless thing!
Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie! an' sin' we're only twa—
Aff han'—let's ilk ane do our best,
To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest,
Dull Care awa'!
Aff han'—let's ilk ane do our best,
To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest,
Dull Care awa'!
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OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST.
Oh! Envie's an uncanny guest,
I've heard it a'way, naethin' doubtin';
An' yet, she bideth i' my breast,
An' winna gang, for a' my routin'.
I've heard it a'way, naethin' doubtin';
An' yet, she bideth i' my breast,
An' winna gang, for a' my routin'.
She does na wear her foulest face
To scare me quite, the crafty quean!
But whiles, a sentimental grace—
A saft, poetic, pensive mien;
To scare me quite, the crafty quean!
But whiles, a sentimental grace—
A saft, poetic, pensive mien;
As, “Hark!” quo' she, “that mirthfu' sang,
Yon Birdie's, frae the dancin' rowans,
An' mark yon Lassie link alang,
Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans.
Yon Birdie's, frae the dancin' rowans,
An' mark yon Lassie link alang,
Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans.
230
“Oh, warldly honours! warldly walth!
How far thae lowly lots surpass ye;
Contentit labour, jocund health,
O' yon sma' Bird, an' simple Lassie.
How far thae lowly lots surpass ye;
Contentit labour, jocund health,
O' yon sma' Bird, an' simple Lassie.
“Blythe, bonnie creatures! fain would I,
Tho' walth an' fame I've nane to barter—”
Sae softly thus will Envie sigh—
Sae saintly, like a Virgin Martyr.
Tho' walth an' fame I've nane to barter—”
Sae softly thus will Envie sigh—
Sae saintly, like a Virgin Martyr.
Nor scowleth she, wi' fiendish leuks,
At heaps o' gowd, or laurel crowns,
But gravely whispers, “Gowd buys beuks,
An' lovin' lauds, an' silver soun's!”
At heaps o' gowd, or laurel crowns,
But gravely whispers, “Gowd buys beuks,
An' lovin' lauds, an' silver soun's!”
An' that's but truth, an' little wrang,
We'll a' alloo, in siclike havers—
But let alane the jaud, or lang
She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers;
We'll a' alloo, in siclike havers—
But let alane the jaud, or lang
She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers;
As, “Leuk!” quo' she, “yon burly chiel,
Wi' red, round face, like Hob the miller,
What blund'rin' turn o' Fortune's wheel
Gat him the luck o' mickle siller?
Wi' red, round face, like Hob the miller,
What blund'rin' turn o' Fortune's wheel
Gat him the luck o' mickle siller?
231
“What earthly bliss conceiveth he
Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage—
A flarin' coach—a shrievaltie—
A gimcrack castle, or a cottage?
Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage—
A flarin' coach—a shrievaltie—
A gimcrack castle, or a cottage?
“An' tither wise-like wizen carle,
Wi' visage yellow as a crocus,
An' eyes a' pucker'd in a harl,
That peer through's han' (which mak's a focus)—
Wi' visage yellow as a crocus,
An' eyes a' pucker'd in a harl,
That peer through's han' (which mak's a focus)—
“At yonner awfu' brick-dust daub,
His bran-new Reubens—Reubens! horrit!
Ay, warrantit by Mynheer Schaub,
Wha's pooch'd the ninny's thoosan's for it.
His bran-new Reubens—Reubens! horrit!
Ay, warrantit by Mynheer Schaub,
Wha's pooch'd the ninny's thoosan's for it.
“An' that auld crabbit chuff! wha pays
Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir;
An' that young fule! wi' four blood bays,
An' nae mair spirit than a weaver,
Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir;
An' that young fule! wi' four blood bays,
An' nae mair spirit than a weaver,
“For aught that's really fine an' gran'—
An' yet the cretur's travell'd Europe,
An' tauks o' Rome, the Vatican,
The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope.
An' yet the cretur's travell'd Europe,
An' tauks o' Rome, the Vatican,
The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope.
232
“An' that gay Dowager an' daughters,
Wha've been abroad, an' brought back hame
French laces—graces—scented waters—
Mosaics—Cameos, an'—fame.
Wha've been abroad, an' brought back hame
French laces—graces—scented waters—
Mosaics—Cameos, an'—fame.
“An' a' thae folk rin to an' fra,
An' scatter gowd like chucky-stanes;
While ither folk, for aught I knaw,
As gude, if no as lucky anes”—
An' scatter gowd like chucky-stanes;
While ither folk, for aught I knaw,
As gude, if no as lucky anes”—
“Haud, Madame Envie! Are ye there?”
Quoth I—“Methinks, frae sma' beginnin's,
For a' yere sanctimonious air,
Ye're gettin' on till serious sinnin's.
Quoth I—“Methinks, frae sma' beginnin's,
For a' yere sanctimonious air,
Ye're gettin' on till serious sinnin's.
“What's ways o' ither folk to me?
Or a' their gowd—or hoo they spend it?
Fause hizzie! let a bodie be
Wha'd fain be humble and contentit.”
Or a' their gowd—or hoo they spend it?
Fause hizzie! let a bodie be
Wha'd fain be humble and contentit.”
“Oh! very weel—nae need,” quo' she,
“To rage wi' virtue sae heroic;
Mak much o' yere philosophie,
Ye'll need it a', my leddy Stoic!
“To rage wi' virtue sae heroic;
Mak much o' yere philosophie,
Ye'll need it a', my leddy Stoic!
233
“When Beltane comes, an' a' the dells
An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin'
Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells,
An' wimplin' burns, an' lintwhites singin';
An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin'
Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells,
An' wimplin' burns, an' lintwhites singin';
“And a' the bonnie broomie knowes
Wi' tufts o' flowerin' may are crested,
Festoon'd wi' monie a wildin' rose,
An' vi'lets, 'mangst the auld roots nested;
Wi' tufts o' flowerin' may are crested,
Festoon'd wi' monie a wildin' rose,
An' vi'lets, 'mangst the auld roots nested;
“An' ev'ry whiff o' win's a freight,
Frae Heav'n itsel', o' sweet sensation—
An' ev'ry livin' thing's elate
Wi' Nature's blissfu' renovation;
Frae Heav'n itsel', o' sweet sensation—
An' ev'ry livin' thing's elate
Wi' Nature's blissfu' renovation;
“An ye're a captive—sick an' lane,
Sae sadly frae yere window peerin',
Ye'll need a heart o' flint and stane
To bar me fairly out o' hearin'.
Sae sadly frae yere window peerin',
Ye'll need a heart o' flint and stane
To bar me fairly out o' hearin'.
“An' liltin' loud, like merle in June,
Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye—
I guess we'll wauk that auncient croon—
‘Oh, Heaven! were I some Cottage Lassie!’”
Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye—
I guess we'll wauk that auncient croon—
‘Oh, Heaven! were I some Cottage Lassie!’”
THE END.
| Solitary hours | |