NIGHTINGALE

JAMES THOMSON

FT, when returning with her loaded bill,
Th' astonished mother finds a vacant nest,

By the hard hand of unrelenting clown
Robb'd; to the ground the vain provision falls;
Her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce
Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade,
Where, all abandoned to despair, she sings
Her sorrows thro' the night; and on the bough
Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall

Takes up again her lamentable strain

Of winding woe, till wide around the woods
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE

JEAN ADAMS

ND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?.

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,

Been fed this month and mair;

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw; It's a' for love of my gudeman, For he's been long awa'.

O gi'e me down my bigonet,
My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;

'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,

His breath's like caller air!

His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, —
In troth, I'm like to greet.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,

I hae nae more to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest above the lave.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, —
In troth, I'm like to greet.

M

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME

WILLIAM SHENSTONE

Y banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;

For he ne'er could be true, she averred,

Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

WILLIAM COLLINS

OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!