« PreviousContinue »
Thy eggs are cauld, and wat, and dead,
In death's last sleep.
I saw thee limping to thy bed,
To mourn and weep.
Thou kept them frae the wind and rain,
Which thou possest ;
Baith bird and eggs are dead and gane,
To endless rest.
When thou did'st live, puir murder'd thing,
Ilk dewy morn on whirring wing,
Then gae'd the moors and mosses ring
Wi' thy glad sang.
Thy mate sits by thee, yet alane,
To life's last goal;
For still he makes his woeful mane,
To cheer thy soul.
The muirland herd was oft thy fear,
Nae mair the foxes' yelp thou'lt hear,
Or colly bark.
The little humble daisy smiled,
Wi' cheerfu' face, sae meek and mild,
Now drops a tear ;
The heather bush waves wae and wild,
Forlorn and drear.
Ah, me! mayhap, in yonder vale,
From hope outcast;
And, shiv'ring, tells his woeful tale
Unto the blast.
E'en like to thine the orphan's lot,
In silent gloom;
The dreary winds shall hold their route
Out o'er his tomb.
Here, rest in peace, receive a tear,
The mighty heron's cry I hear,
The dark comes fast;
The spark in yonder cot looks drear,
Adieu! and rest.
THERE sat upon the linden-tree
It saw the rose-trees grow,
And thought again the thoughts of love There cherish'd long ago.
A thousand years to me it seems
Since by thy face I sate,
Yet thus t' have been a stranger long
Was not my choice, but fate:
Since then I have not seen the flowers,
Nor heard the bird's sweet song;
My joys have all too briefly past,
My griefs been all too long.
THE LINNET'S NEST.
THE busy birds with nice selection cull
THE BLUE BIRD.
Alex. Wilson. `
WHEN Winter's cold tempests and snows are no
Green meadows and brown-furrow'd fields
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red glow the maples, so fresh and so
O then comes the Blue Bird, the herald of Spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the