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He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it!" Death replies; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before

"T is six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;

"To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority, -is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the
best

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you 'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!"

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"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past. "And no great wonder," Death replies: "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "soit might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 't is true; But still there 's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; and if there

were,

I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient
warnings;

So come along, no more we 'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now Old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate, so ends my tale.

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

[1743-1825.]

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh control;
Ye shall not violate, this day,
The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes, How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storins are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,

Fanned by some angel's purple wing;Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell!

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JOHN LOGAN.

[1748 - 1788.]

TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

YARROW STREAM.

THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on thee I met my lover;
Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!

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WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY
O, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burnside,
Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,
And thought it was a trusty tree,
But first it bowed, and syne it brak',
Sae my true love did lightly me.

O, waly, waly, but love is bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.
O, wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be filled by me;

UNKNOWN.

Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love 's forsaken me, Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree?

O gentle death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blowing snow's inclemency; "T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been so ill to win, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it with a silver pin. And O, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane,

Wi' the green grass growing over me!

UNKNOWN.

LADY MARY ANN.

O, LADY MARY ANN looked o'er the cas tle wa',

She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba',

The youngest he was the flower amang them a':

My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

"O father, O father, an' ye think it fit, We'll send him a year to the college yet: We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat,

And that will let them ken he's to marry yet."

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue,

And the langer it blossomed the sweeter it grew;

For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet.

77

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,

Bonnie and blooming and straight was its make,

The sun took delight to shine for its sake;

And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.

The summer is gone when the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa' that we hae seen, But far better days I trust will come again;

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growing yet.

UNKNOWN.

THE BOATIE ROWS.

O, WEEL may the boatie row,

And better may she speed; And liesome may the boatie row That wins the bairnies' bread. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatic rows indeed; And weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairnies' bread.

I coost my line in Largo Bay,
And fishes I catched nine;
'T was three to boil and three to fry,
And three to bait the line.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed,
And happy be the lot o' a'

Wha wishes her to speed.

O, weel may the boatie row,

That fills a heavy creel, And cleeds us a' frae tap to tae, And buys our parritch meal. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows, indeed, And happy be the lot o' a'

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vowed he wad be nine,
And wan frae me my heart,
O, muckle lighter grew my creel –
He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;
And muckle lighter is the load
When love bears up the creel.

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My kurtch I put upo' my head,
And dressed mysel' fu' braw;

I trow my heart was dough and wae,
When Jamie gade awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part,

And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.

UNKNOWN.

GLENLOGIE.

THREESCOKE O' nobles rade up the king's ha',

But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a',

Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e,

The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e;

But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee.

"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;

Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town":

But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green,

O, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there;

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair.

"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're welcome," said she,

"Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie

to see.

"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie

me!"

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gaed ben,

But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he sat down;

She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e,

"O, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee."

UNKNOWN.

JOHN DAVIDSON.

JOHN DAVIDSON and Tib his wife
Sat toastin' their taes ae night,
When somethin' started on the fluir
An' blinked by their sight.

"Guidwife!" quo' John, "did ye see that inouse?

Whar sorra was the cat?" "A mouse?"-"Ay, a mouse."-"Na, na, Guidman,

It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat."

"Oh, oh! Guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang about the house

An' no to ken a mouse frae a rat!

Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse!"

"I've seen mair mice than you, Guid

man,

An' what think ye o' that?

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