Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy And each for other's welfare kindly What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae spiers: grave ; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected One cordial in this melancholy vale,— 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth! Perhaps Dundee's" wild warbling meas ures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame: That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling, Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- But now the supper crowns their simple board, raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; food; The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- How He, who bore in Heaven the second In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, "Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry!" The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the manteltree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were press'd; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay: Fast asleep were they both, that summer day! CHARLES G. EASTMAN. MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS. WHEN I upon thy bosom lean, And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith, The tender look, the meltin' kiss; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee! I ken thy wish is me to please; Our moments pass sae smooth away That numbers on us look and gaze; Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; And aye when weary cares arise, Thy bosom still shall be my hame. WINIFREDA. AWAY! let naught to love displeasing, What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason; And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures While round my knees they fondly clung, To see them look their mother's features, And when with envy time, transported, AUTHOR UNKNOWN. HERMIONÉ WHEREVER I wander, up and about, I have a wife, and she is wise, Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek; Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes, Coteries rustle to hear her speak; She writes a little-for love, not fame; Has publish'd a book with a dreary name; And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal, Is part of the puzzle that fills my head- The only answer that I can see For I am a fellow of no degree, The Latin they thrash'd into me at school away: At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say. But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the kind of study that I think fine Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, Those learned lips that the learnèd praiseAnd to clasp her close as in sillier days; To talk and joke in a frolic vein, To tell her my stories of things and men And it never strikes me that I'm profane, For she laughs and blushes, and kisses again; And, presto! fly! goes her wisdom then! For boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Roaring to see her so bright with mirth ; And I know she deems me (oh the jest!) The cleverest fellow on all the earth! And Hermioné, my Hermioné, When I lounge, after work, in my easy- Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace. chair; Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, And the butterfly mots blown here and there By the idle breath of the social air. Hermioné, my Hermioné! What could your wisdom perceive in me? Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about! And my lady-wife with the serious eyes Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, And looks, although she is deep and wise, As foolish and happy as he or I! And I have the courage just then, you see, To kiss the lips of Hermioné— And the silly pride in her learnèd face! That is the puzzle I can't make out-Because I care little for books, no doubt; But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why, For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and 1 ROBERT BUCHANAN. JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: |