I pray you, what is the nest to me, And what is the shore where I stood to see Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me Ah, me! JEAN INGELOW. MY CHILDHOOD HOME. HERE'S a little low hut by the river's side, Within the sound of its rippling tide; Its walls are grey with the mosses of years, And its roof all crumbled and old appears; But fairer to me than castle's pride Is the little low hut by the river's side! The little low hut was my natal rest, When my childhood passed-Life's springtime blest; That little low hut, in lowly guise, The father revered and the children gay By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, With the little low hut by the river's side. That little low hut to the lonely wife My mother-alone by the river's side She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide, The dear old hut by the river's side RAIN ON THE ROOF. HEN the humid shadows hover Of a cottage-chamber bed Every tinkle on the shingles And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother Which is played upon the shingles Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair And her star-eyed cherub brother A serene angelic pair!— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproo As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. COATES KINNEY. BAIRNIES, CUDDLE DOON. HE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din`; Oh try and sleep, ye waukrif rogues, They dinna hear a word I speak; I try an' gie a frown, But aye I hap them up and cry, Wee Jaimie, wi' the curly heid, Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece'" I rin an' fetch them pieces-drinks- But scarce five minutes gang, wee Rab The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, At length they hear their feyther's step, And as he nears the door They draw their blankets o'er their heids, And Tam pretinds to snore. "Hae a' the weans been guid?" he asks, As he pits off his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, And lang since cuddled doon." And just afore we bed oursels We look at our wee lambs; Tam has his airm round wee Rab's neck, I lift wee Jaimie up the bed, I whisper, till my hairt fills up, 66 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald, "O bairnies,cuddle doon!" ALEXANDER ANDERSON. |