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Come away for Life and Thought

Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious,

A great and distant city, have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have staid with
us!

TENNYSON.

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

YE scattered brids that faintly sing,

The reliques of the vernal choir! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honors of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay,

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;

But nocht in all revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen;

The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been;

The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee:

But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!

BURNS.

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, whimplin' down your
glens,
Wi' todlin' din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea;

Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bounilie,

In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;

Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;

Ye curlews calling through a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!

He's gane forever!

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great,

In a' the tinsel trash o' state;
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth.
BURNS.

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And, hugging close, we will not feare

Lust entering here;

Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot,

Or trouble not. Here needs no court for our request, Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to feare the frowne Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,

There all are kings. And for a while lye here concealed, To be revealed, Next, at that great platonick yeere, And then meet here. HERRICK.

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Each lovely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

COLLINS.

DIRGE FOR DORCAS.

COME pitie us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
Come pitie us, ye passers-by,
Who see or hear poor widows crie;
Come pitie us, and bring your eares
And eyes to pitie widows' teares.

And when you are come hither,
Then we will keep

A fast, and weep
Our eyes out all together,

For Tabitha, who dead lies here,
Clean washt, and laid out for the bier.
O modest matrons, weep and waile!
For now the corne and wine must
faile;

The basket and the bynn of bread,
Wherewith so many soules were fed,
Stand empty here forever;

And ah! the poore,
At thy worne doore,
Shall be relievèd never.

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