Family

(Perhaps) adapted for Music.

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
And kind is my lover hard by;
They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe.
Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made
So much of a laugh or - Halló.

From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;
For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high,
And Echo that sings as I sing.
Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the - Halló.

Simple flowers of the grove, littl...

The skies are strown with stars,
The streets are fresh with dew
A thin moon drifts to westward,
The night is hushed and cheerful.
My thought is quick with you.

Near windows gleam and laugh,
And far away a train
Clanks glowing through the stillness:
A great content's in all things,
And life is not in vain.

1877

Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.


CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.


Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS

Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS

I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my las...

    Now far from my old northern land,
    I live where gentle winters pass;
    Where green seas lave a wealthy strand,
    And unsown is the grass;

        Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope
    Of gazing heaven to spread their show,
    Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope,
    With fringes flaming low;

        With one beside me in whose eyes
    Once more old Nature finds a home;
    There treasures up her changeful skies,
    Her phosphorescent foam.

        O'er a new joy this day we bend,
    Soft power from heaven our souls to lift;
    A wondering wonder thou dost lend
    With loan outpassing gift--

        A little child. She sees the sun--
    Once more incarnates thy old law:
    One born of two, tw...

May, 1785.


    I gat your letter, winsome Willie;
    Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
    Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
        An' unco vain,
    Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,
        Your flatterin' strain.

    But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
    I sud be laith to think ye hinted
    Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
        On my poor Musie;
    Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it,
        I scarce excuse ye.

    My senses wad be in a creel,
    Should I but dare a hope to speel,
    Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,
        The braes o' fame;
    Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,
        A deathless name.

    (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
    Ill suited law's dry, musty...

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of Spring's earliest flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.
Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose,
And aconites under the lilac, like fairies;
The best in the bunches for Mary I chose,
Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.
The one will make Spring in my verses so bare,
The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.

Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary,
Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind,
Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary;
And appear in my verses all Summer, and b...

I.
I dream of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?

II.
Round and round, like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet’s pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.

III.
Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
Bees pass it unimpeached.

IV.
Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
You, great shapes of the antique time!
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?

Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.
How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.

Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.

It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
...

Last night, my darling, as you slept,
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept,
And watched a space thereby;
And then I stooped and kissed your brow,
For oh! I love you so--
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know!

Some time when, in a darkened place
Where others come to weep,
Your eyes shall look upon a face
Calm in eternal sleep,
The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,
The patient smile shall show--
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you may know!

Look backward, then, into the years,
And see me here to-night--
See, O my darling! how my tears
Are falling as I write;
And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago--
You are too young to know it now,
But ...

There is a poetry that speaks
    Through common things: the grasshopper,
That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks,
    Says all of summer to my ear:
    And in the cricket's cry I hear
The fireside speak, and feel the frost
    Work mysteries of silver near
On country casements, while, deep lost
In snow, the gatepost seems a sheeted ghost.

    And other things give rare delight:
    Those guttural harps the green-frogs tune,
Those minstrels of the falling night,
    That hail the sickle of the moon
    From grassy pools that glass her lune:
Or, - all of August in its loud
    Dry cry, - the locust's call at noon,
That tells of heat and never a cloud
To veil the pitiless sun as with a shroud.

    The rain, - whose cloud dark-lids the mo...