The Inglenook

The Sailor's Wife

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockins pearly blue;

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
Been fed this month and mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

The

Inglenook

The Inglenook

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

WILLIAM J. MICKLE.

Evening at the Farm

Over the hill the farm-boy goes.

His shadow lengthens along the land,

A giant staff in a giant hand;

In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,

The

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, Inglenook The cooling dews are falling;

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,

The pigs come grunting to his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,—

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray,— "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool. Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!”

The To supper at last the farmer goes.
Inglenook The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling,-

66

Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring "So, boss! so!"

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

Home Song

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care,

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,