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WITH STEEL PORTRAITS, WOOD ENGRAVINGS BY ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ARTISTS,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW,
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Wi’ bickering brattle !
Wi' muidoring pattle !
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,
And never miss 't!
Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and secn Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening
green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way, Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path with animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ? Ye who can smile -- to wisdom no disgrace – At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; If spotless innocence and infant mirth Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side, assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay; Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, “Come, let us try our speed"; Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along Allown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, Then, panting, stop; yet scarcely can refrain, -A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try; Like the torn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom !
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
O' foggage green !
Baith snell and keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out through thy cell.
FOLDING THE FLOCKS.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
But house or hald,
An' cranreuch cauld !
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
Gang aft a-gley,
For promised joy.
SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Still thon art blest, compared wi' me !
On prospects drear;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
The finely checkereil duck before her train
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
CHORUS OF ENGLISH SONGSTERS.
FROM THE "PARADISE OF BIRDS."
FROM "THE SEASONS."
In the springtime, chaffinch gay,
“ Vanished is the winter snow ; Days grow longer” (you shall say);
Apple-blossoms soon will blow. Haste, ye wingless lovers, then,
Take your pleasure ere 't is late, Birds are building, maids and men,
Every one selects his mate. Now St. Valentine is past,
April will in time be May; Youth that lingers will not last ;
There's a sunset every day. Birds and poets both have sung, • Love comes only to the young.'"
Up springs the lark, Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of moin. Ere yet the shailows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush And woodlark, o'er the kind-contending throng Superior heard, run through the sweetest length Of notes ; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day. The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove ; Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Poured out profusely, silent : joined to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellilluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, An each harsh pipe, (liscordant heard alone, Aid the full concert; while the stockdove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole.
"T is love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love ; That even to birds and beasts the tender arts Of pleasing teaches.
Sing, O nightingale, in June :
“Now it is the shortest night, And to-morrow's sun hy noon
Will have climbed his yearly height. Rarer sounds the blackbird's pipe;
Redder grow's the apricot ; Everything is still and ripe ;
From to-morrow all things rot. Life's climacteric of power
Is the hal ay house of Death ; Man's decline, like bird and flower,
Dates from parting of a breath. Night must now shift hands with day; Fullest ripeness brinys decay.”
FROM "THE SEASONS."
Swallow, in September sing:
“Quit we now our northern eaves ; All the gnats are perishing ;
Sere and sapless look the leaves. Where are flown the summer flies ?
Like men's riches they have wings. Vanity of vanities !
Fleeting are all feathered things ! We have read our horoscope,
But in summer we forget ;
The careful hen Calls all her chirping family around, Fed and defended by the fearless cock, Whose breast with arilor flames, as on he walks, Graceful, and crows defiance. In the pond