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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,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

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, —
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies ; .
And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’joy, till baith

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?
O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine !
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face, nor heard

The music o’ your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O’bygane days and me!

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A N all the land, range up, range down,

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet
As Langley Lane in London town,
Just out of the bustle of square and street ?
Little white cottages all in a row,
Gardens where bachelors’-buttons grow,

Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above, the still blue sky
Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by, —

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
The distant murmur of street and square,

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind;
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak; —

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,
And I am older by summers three, —

Why should we hold each other so dear ?
Because she cannot utter a word,
Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call !
Because I have never seen the sky,
Nor the little singers that hum and fly, —

Yet know she is gazing upon them all!
For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,

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?
'T is pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

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 :
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And when I sit by my little one,
And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,

And seeing the music upon my face.
Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer

(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 ?

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