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When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang !
O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
And hear its waters croon?
The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees, —
Concerted harmonies ; .
For hours thegither sat
Wi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled, - unsung !
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?
Thine ear as it does mine !
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;
Ye never were forgot.
Still travels on its way;
The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
The music o’ your tongue;
And happy could I dee,
O’bygane days and me!
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
A N all the land, range up, range down,
Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet
Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
I seem to be able to see it all.
For now, in summer, I take my chair,
And sit outside in the sun, and hear
And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
With her little hand's touch so warm and kind;
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.
Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she
Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,
Why should we hold each other so dear ?
The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call !
Yet know she is gazing upon them all!
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, And I hear the water-cart go by,
With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row; And the little one close at my side perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,
Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,
And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,
When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? Do I not know she is pretty and young ?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?
That I only hear as they pass around;
And I am happy to keep God's sound.
Why, I know her face, though I am blind, —
I made it of music long ago :
Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And hear the music that haunts the place,
And seeing the music upon my face.
(I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny in Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend she holds so dear,
The song of the birds, the hum of the street, -It is better to be as we have been, — Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,
To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.
Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane !
There is always something sweet to hear, Chirping of birds or patter of rain,
And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong,
And though we never can married be, What then ? — since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,
And the pleasure that only one can see ?