Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, - the dead reign there alone! and what if thou withdraw So shalt thou rest; In silence from the living, and no friend The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Yet has no month a prouder day, For this chill season now again Brings in its annual rounds the morn When greatest of the sons of men, Our glorious Washington, was born. AULD LANG SYNE BY ROBERT BURNS Should auld acquaintance be forgot, CHORUS For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wandered mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, etc. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, etc. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld, etc. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. For auld, etc. HIGHLAND MARY BY ROBERT BURNS Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, As, underneath their fragrant shade, Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, But, oh, fell death's untimely frost, That nipp'd flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips |