Plea of an English Pauper Woman. Ay, Idleness! the rich folks never fail That brings the fever or the ague fit? Knew never what it was to want a meal: Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday My linen gown, and when the pedlar came Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband, A towardly young man and well to do. He had his silver buckles and his watch; So went the watch; and when the holiday coat For wilfully, like this new married pair, I went to my undoing. - A blessed prospect, To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse, A parish shell at last, and the little bell Tolled hastily for a pauper's funeral! ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796.) TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 't was our last! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green, The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? THOMAS CAMPBELL. (1777—still living.) THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. Stay, stay with us―rest, thou art weary and worn: SIR WALTER SCOTT. (1771-1832.) BATTLE OF FLODDEN. "BUT see! look up-on Flodden bent, From the sharp ridges of the hill, Told England, from his mountain-throne They close in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air. |