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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.

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

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!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

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

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu't the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot.

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!

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 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 soy summits old in story:
The longht 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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