VI.

Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I'm glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad.

ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON.

MOON of harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labor's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the streain,
And gilds the straw-thatched ham-
let wide,
Where
reside;

innocence and peace

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic

throng,

Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high
In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat,
Ripened by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy
When boundless plenty greets his

CLIFTON GROVE,

Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering

light,

And day's last vestige takes its silent

flight.

No more is heard the woodman's meas ured stroke

Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke;

No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head,

The crows, assembling, seek their windrock'd bed.

Stilled is the village hum- the woodland sounds

Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,

And general silence reigns, save when below,

The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;

And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,

And oh! thou sacred power, who rear'st on high

Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh!

Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control

Steals with resistless witchery to the soul,

Come with thy wonted ardor and inspire

My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire.

And thou, too, Fancy! from thy starry sphere,

Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear,

But nae gentle lip nor simple lip

Maun touch her Ladie mou';

But a broidered belt wi' a buckle o' gowd

Her jimpy waist maun span; O she's an armfu' fit for heaven, My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' silver thread,
An' comely she sits in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheeks, Wi' her milky milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touched wi' the finger o' God;

My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd,
Like my luve's broider'd cap,
An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Are monie a gowden drap.
Her bonnie ee bree's a holie arch,

Cast by no earthly han',

An' the breath o' God's atween the lips O' my bonnie Lady Ann!

I am her father's gardener lad,

And poor poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee wee fee, Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My Lady comes, my Lady goes

ᏙᎥ fu' an' kindly han';

a

O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,

An' fa' on Lady Ann!

SHE'S GONE TO DWELL IN
HEAVEN.

SHE's gone to dwell in heaven, my lassie,

She's gone to dwell in heaven: Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, For dwelling out o' heaven!

O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
O what'll she do in heaven?
She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels'

sangs,

An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.
Low there thou lies, my lassie,
Low there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudeness itself wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gone was the holy breath o' heaven To sing the evening psalm.

There's nought but dust now mine. lassie,

There's nought but dust now mine; My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld, cauld grave,

An' why should I stay behin' ?

MY NANIE O.

RED rows the Nith, 'tween bank and brae,

Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,

I'll gang and see my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands. And nane can do't but Nanie O.