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WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

LAST VERSES.

[Given to a Friend a day or two before the

Writer's Death.]

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,

Thou gentle heart;

WHEN I beneath the cold red earth And though thy bosom should with

am sleeping,

Life's fever o'er.

grief be swelling,

Let no tear start:

Will there for me be any bright eye It were in vain, - for Time hath long

weeping

That I'm no more?

Will there be any heart still memory

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been knelling, "Sad one, depart!"

MY HEID IS LIKE TO rend,
WILLIE.

MY heid is like to rend, Willie.
My heart is like to break;
I'm wearin' off my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane, -
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am dead and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will; But let me rest upon your briest To sab and greet my fill, Let me sit on your knee, Willie, Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Wiilie, I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie!
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart
And press it mair and mair;
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair!

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, When we thegither met,

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A weakness and a wickedness to O, wae's me for the time, Willie,

borrow,

From hearts that bleed,

The wailings of to-day for what to

morrow

Shall never need.

That our first tryst was set! O wae's me for the loanin' green Where we were wont to gae, And wae's me for the destinie That gart me luve thee sae!

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THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A STEED,

-a steed of matchless speed!

All else to noble hearts is dross,
A sword of metal keen!

All else on earth is mean.
The neighing of the war-horse proud,
The rolling of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet loud,

Be sounds from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering press of knights,

Whenas their war-cries swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mount! then mount! brave gallants all,

And don your helms amain: Death's couriers, fame and honor,

call

Us to the field again.

No shrewish tear shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand: Heart-whole, we'll part, and no whit sigh

For the fairest of the land;
Let piping swain and craven wight
Thus weep, and puling cry,

Our business is like men to fight;
And hero-like to die!

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison.
The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows ower my path,

And blind my een with tears:

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the They blind my een wi' saut, saut

chin

Ye never shall kiss mair!

tears,

And sair and sick I pine,

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The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickle down your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelin's forth, Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me !
O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne!

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's youug day,

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

THEY Come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers;
They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers,
Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside;
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand;
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee:
And mark how with thine own thin locks they now are silvery gray-
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody:

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold;
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,- from yonder wood it came!
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; -
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,- his notes are void of art;
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I'm sadder now I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to drink:-
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,- a heart that hath waxed old!

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

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's aye fair

I' the Land o' the Leal.

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"SERVE God and be cheerful." The

motto

"Serve God and be cheerful." The darkness

Only masks the surprises of dawn;

Shall be mine, as the bishop's of And the deeper and grimmer the

old;

On my soul's coat-of-arms, I will

write it

In letters of azure and gold.

midnight,

The brighter and sweeter the morn.

"Serve God and be cheerful." The

winter

Rolls round to the beautiful spring,

"Serve God and be cheerful," self- And in the green grave of the snow

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