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WITH STEEL PORTRAITS, WOOD ENGRAVINGS BY ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ARTISTS,
SILHOUETTE TITLES, MANUSCRIPT FAC-SIMILES,

ETC., ETC.

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HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY

BY EXCHANGE

Feb 11,1941

COPYRIGHT, 1877 A.D., By J. B. FORD E COMPANY.

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ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW,

NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty,

Wi’ bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' muidoring pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,

And never miss 't!

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and secn Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening

green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way, Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path with animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ? Ye who can smile -- to wisdom no disgrace – At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; If spotless innocence and infant mirth Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side, assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay; Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, “Come, let us try our speed"; Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along Allown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, Then, panting, stop; yet scarcely can refrain, -A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try; Like the torn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom !

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
An' naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green !
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen !

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past

Out through thy cell.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD,

FOLDING THE FLOCKS.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld !

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain,

For promised joy.

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is ;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures ; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his lovèd flock;

Still thon art blest, compared wi' me !
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear;
An' forward, though I canna see,

I guess

an' fear.

ROBERT BURNS.

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox,
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease ;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell :
Thus I end my evening knell.

The finely checkereil duck before her train
Rows garrulous. The stately-sailing swan
Gives out her snowy plumage to the gale;
And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet
Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle,
Protective of his young. The turkey nighi,
Loud-threatening, reddens; while the preacock

spreads
His every-colored glory to the sun,
And swims in radiant majesty along.
O'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove
Flies thick in amorous chase, and wanton rolls
The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck.

JAMES THOMSON.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

CHORUS OF ENGLISH SONGSTERS.

THE SONGSTERS.

FROM THE "PARADISE OF BIRDS."

FROM "THE SEASONS."

In the springtime, chaffinch gay,

“ Vanished is the winter snow ; Days grow longer” (you shall say);

Apple-blossoms soon will blow. Haste, ye wingless lovers, then,

Take your pleasure ere 't is late, Birds are building, maids and men,

Every one selects his mate. Now St. Valentine is past,

April will in time be May; Youth that lingers will not last ;

There's a sunset every day. Birds and poets both have sung, • Love comes only to the young.'"

Up springs the lark, Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of moin. Ere yet the shailows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush And woodlark, o'er the kind-contending throng Superior heard, run through the sweetest length Of notes ; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day. The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove ; Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Poured out profusely, silent : joined to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellilluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, An each harsh pipe, (liscordant heard alone, Aid the full concert; while the stockdove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole.

"T is love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love ; That even to birds and beasts the tender arts Of pleasing teaches.

JAMES THOMSON,

Sing, O nightingale, in June :

“Now it is the shortest night, And to-morrow's sun hy noon

Will have climbed his yearly height. Rarer sounds the blackbird's pipe;

Redder grow's the apricot ; Everything is still and ripe ;

From to-morrow all things rot. Life's climacteric of power

Is the hal ay house of Death ; Man's decline, like bird and flower,

Dates from parting of a breath. Night must now shift hands with day; Fullest ripeness brinys decay.”

DOMESTIC BIRDS.

FROM "THE SEASONS."

Swallow, in September sing:

“Quit we now our northern eaves ; All the gnats are perishing ;

Sere and sapless look the leaves. Where are flown the summer flies ?

Like men's riches they have wings. Vanity of vanities !

Fleeting are all feathered things ! We have read our horoscope,

But in summer we forget ;

The careful hen Calls all her chirping family around, Fed and defended by the fearless cock, Whose breast with arilor flames, as on he walks, Graceful, and crows defiance. In the pond

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