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JEANIE MORRISON.

O DEAR, dear Jeanie 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 blythe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time!-twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae 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 down ower ae braid

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Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans laughin'

said,

We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

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

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its water croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our
heads,

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

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

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We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared,

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll take a right guid willie-
waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

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And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So mayst thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.

MILTON.

HARK! HARK! THE LARK.

HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE BUGLE-SONG.

THE splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the
lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in
glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

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COME to the river's reedy shore,
My maiden, while the skies,
With blushes fit to grace thy cheek,
Wait for the sun's uprise:

There, dancing on the rippling wave,
My boat expectant lies,

And jealous flowers, as thou goest by, Unclose their dewy eyes.

As slowly down the stream we glide, The lilies all unfold

Their leaves, less rosy white than thou,

And virgin hearts of gold;
The gay birds on the meadow elm
Salute thee blithe and bold,
While I sit shy and silent here,
And glow with love untold.

F. B. SANBORN.

SONG FROM JASON.

I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,

And in the place two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea;
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the
bee,

The shore no ship has ever seen,
Still beaten by the billows green,
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
That maketh me both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face
Once seen, once kissed, once reft
from me

Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS.

OF A' THE AIRTS.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the west;
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair,

I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air:

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