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Mary Howitt.



WHEN on the breath of autumn breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating like an idle thought The fair white thistle-down, Oh then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest hill!

What joy in dreamy ease to lie
Amid a field new shorn,
And see all round on sun-lit slopes
The piled-up stacks of corn;
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

I feel the day-I see the field,
The quivering of the leaves,
And good old Jacob and his house

Binding the yellow sheaves;
And at this very hour I seem
To be with Joseph in his dream.

I see the fields of Bethlehem,
And reapers many a one,
Bending under their sickles' stroke-

And Boaz looking on;

And Ruth, the Moabite, so fair,
Among the gleaners stooping there.

Again I see a little child,
His mother's sole delight,-
God's living gift unto

The kind, good Shunammite;
To mortal pangs I see him yield,
And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years ago
Were full of corn, I see;
And the dear Saviour takes his way
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

O golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem !

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
To me are like a dream.

The sunshine and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there.

William Motherwell.




'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 cule.

O dear, dear Jeanic Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ac laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think.

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said
We clecked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The scule then skail't at noon),

When we ran off to speel the braes,— The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round aboutMy heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!

O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower 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, wi' 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.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun 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 feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
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 young 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 die,

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

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