NIGHTINGALE JAMES THOMSON FT, when returning with her loaded bill, By the hard hand of unrelenting clown Takes up again her lamentable strain Of winding woe, till wide around the woods THE SAILOR'S WIFE JEAN ADAMS ND are ye sure the news is true? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, Been fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, And mak' the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; It's a' for love of my gudeman, For he's been long awa'. O gi'e me down my bigonet, For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath's like caller air! His very foot has music in't I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I hae nae more to crave; Could I but live to mak' him blest, And will I see his face again? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — M THE SHEPHERD'S HOME WILLIAM SHENSTONE Y banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottos are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow. Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE WILLIAM COLLINS OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; |