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 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 Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon! 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, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring Do thou descend, and bless my ravished So virtue blooms, brought forth amid Of chill adversity; in some lone walk Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on Chastens her spotless purity of breast, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1784-1842. [BORN of comparatively humble parentage in Dumfriesshire. Began life as a stone-mason, but his early literary ability attracted the attention of the public and won for him the esteem and friendship of men of genius. In 1810 he obtained a position of trust in the Studio of Chantrey, a London sculptor, which afforded him an opportunity to employ his active pen and for intercourse with men of literary tastes. His reputation rests chiefly upon his smaller pieces, which are very natural and intensely Scotch, vigorous and even splendid in their higher moods, affectingly pathetic in their softer strains. His novels, Paul Jones, etc., are full of glittering description and exaggerated and unnatural character.] 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, 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, 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 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? sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a', my lassie, But an angel fell in love wi' her, A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Thou left me nought to covet ahin', 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. |