No More Learning



## p. 16442 (#142) ##########################################

16442
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE
A*
ND are ye sure the news is true ?
And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to think o' wark ?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel!
Is this a time to think o'wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax me my cloak, — I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's-satin gown, -
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town;
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl-blue:
It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her Sunday gown,
And Jock his button coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw:
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.
There's twa fat hens upo' the bank,-
They've fed this month and mair,-
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw:
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in 't
As he comes up the stair.


## p. 16443 (#143) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16443
And will I see his face again ?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzit wi' the thought -
In troth I'm like to greet!
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content-
I hae nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzit wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a':
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.
JEAN ADAM.
“IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME »
IT
t's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa';
The bonny white rose it is withering an'a':
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There's naught now frae ruin my country can save,-
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave;
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save,-
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;


## p. 16444 (#144) ##########################################

16444
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my ee-
"I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie. ”
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW
C
ONFIDE ye aye in Providence,
For Providence is kind;
An' bear ye a' life's changes
Wi' a calm and tranquil mind.
Though pressed and hemmed on every side,
Ha'e faith, an' ye'll win through;
For ilka blade o' grass
Keeps its ain drap o' dew.
Gin reft frae friends, or crossed in love,
As whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart,
Or tears flow frae your e'en,
Believe it for the best, and trow
There's good in store for you;
For ilka blade o' grass
Keeps its ain drap o' dew.
In lang, lang days o’ simmer,
When the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain
To nature, parched and dry,
The genial night, with balmy breath,
Gars verdure spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass
Keeps its ain drap o' dew.
Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine
We should feel ower proud an' hie,
An' in our pride forget to wipe
The tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come,
We ken na whence or hoo;
But ilka blade o' grass
Keeps its ain drap o' dew.
JAMES BALLANTINE.


## p. 16445 (#145) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16445
MINE OWN WORK
I
MADE the cross myself whose weight
Was later laid on me:
This thought is torture as I toil
Up life's steep Calvary.
To think mine own hands drove the nails!
I sung a merry song,
And chose the heaviest wood I had
To build it firm and strong.
If I had guessed — if I had dreamed
Its weight was made for me,
I should have made a lighter cross
To bear up Calvary.
ANNE REEVE ALDRICH.
DEPARTURE
N°
or as in prison pent,
Not as a spirit sent
To baser banishment,
I tarried well content
The body's guest.
Whithersoe'er I fly,
Let me not wholly die ! -
Yet He who shall deny
Or grant this parting cry
Knows which is best.
WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON.
LIFE
A
SA shaft that is sped from a bow unseen to an unseen mark,
As a bird that gleams in the firelight, and hurries from dark
to dark,
As the face of the stranger who smiled as we passed in the crowded
street, -
Our life is a glimmer, a flutter, a memory, fading, yet sweet!
WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON.


## p. 16446 (#146) ##########################################

16446
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE CLOSING DOORS
E"
ILIDH, Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet!
In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your com-
ing feet;
The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat
A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my
sweet!
Osands of my heart, what wind moans low along thy shadowy
shore ?
Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core ?
Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:
'Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,
Who soon shall hear no more.
Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me!
It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be.
Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o' the
sea, -
Once closed they are closed forever, Eilidh, lost, lost for thee and me,
Lost, lost, for thee and me.
FIONA MACLEOD.
A RHYME OF DEATH'S INN
A ;
RHYME of good Death's inn!
My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.
My love she lifted up her head,
"And is there room ? » said she:
« There was no room in Bethlehem's inn
For Christ who died for me. ”
But said the keeper of the inn,
“His name is on the door. ”
My love then straightway entered there:
She hath come back no more.
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.


## p. 16447 (#147) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16447
AFTER THE BALL
THE
HEY sat and combed their beautiful hair,
Their long bright tresses, one by one,
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,
After the revel was done.
Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille,
Idly they laughed like other girls
Who, over the fire, when all is still,
Comb out their braids and curls.
Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
Knots of flowers and ribbons too,
Scattered about in every place,-
For the revel is through.
And Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night,
For the revel is done;
Sit and comb their beautiful hair,
Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,
Till the fire is out in the chamber there,
And the little bare feet are cold.
Then out of the gathering winter chill,
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,
While the fire is out and the house is still,
Maud and Madge together,-
Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,-
Curtained away from the chilly night,
After the revel is done,-
Float along in a splendid dream,
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream
In a palace's grand saloon.
Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces,
Tropical odors sweeter than musk,
Men and women with beautiful faces,
And eyes of tropical dusk;


## p. 16448 (#148) ##########################################

16448
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And one face shining out like a star,
One face haunting the dreams of each,
And one voice, sweeter than others are,
Breaking in silvery speech, -
Telling through lips of bearded bloom
An old, old story over again,
As down the royal bannered room,
To the golden gittern's strain,
Two and two they dreamily walk,
While an unseen spirit walks beside,
And all unheard in the lovers' talk
He claimeth one for a bride.
O Maud and Madge, dream on together,
With never a pang of jealous fear!
For ere the bitter St. Agnes weather
Shall whiten another year,
Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb,
Braided brown hair and golden tress,
There'll be only one of you left for the bloom
Of the bearded lips to press, —
Only one for the bridal pearls,
The robe of satin and Brussels lace,-
Only one to blush through her curls
At the sight of a lover's face.
O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,
For you the revel has just begun;
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night
The revel of life is done!
But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,
O beautiful Maud, you'll never miss
The kisses another hath won.
NORA PERRY.


## p. 16449 (#149) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16449
MY CHILD
I
CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes – he is not there!
I walk my parlor floor,
And through the open
door
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair:
I'm stepping toward the hall
To give the boy a call;
And then bethink me that - he is not there.
I thread the crowded street:
A satchel'd lad I meet,
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
And as he's running by,
Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that — he is not there!
I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,
So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek him inquiringly,
Before the thought comes that — he is not there!
When at the cool gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,
With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,
To Him who gave my boy:
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there!
When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,
I am in spirit praying
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there!
He lives! — In all the past
He lives; nor to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair:
XXVIII-1029


## p. 16450 (#150) ##########################################

16450
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
In dreams I see him now;
And on his angel brow
I see it written - « Thou shalt see me there ! »
Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER! thy chastening rod
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That in the spirit land,
Meeting at thy right hand,
'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!
-
JOHN PIERPONT.
ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?
E“
ACH day when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,
I steal away from my husband,
Asleep in his easy-chair,
And watch in the open doorway
Their faces fresh and fair.
Alone in the dear old homestead
That once was full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing boyish strife,
We two are waiting together;
And oft, as the shadows come,
With tremulous voice he calls me,
“It is night! are the children home? »
« Yes, love ! » I answer him gently,
«They're all home long ago;”
And I sing in my quivering treble
A song so soft and low,
Till the old man drops to slumber
With his head upon his hand,
And I tell to myself the number
At home in the better land.
At home, where never a sorrow
Shall dim their eyes with tears!


## p. 16451 (#151) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16451
Where the smile of God is on them
Through all the summer years!
I know — yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven,
And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.
Sometimes in the dusk of evening
I only shut my eyes,
And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies:
The babes whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast,
And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blest.
With never a cloud upon them,
I see their radiant brows,
My boys that I gave to freedom —
The' red sword sealed their vows!
In a tangled Southern forest,
Twin brothers bold and brave,
They fell; and the flag they died for,
Thank God! floats over their grave.
A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on the wings of light,
And again we two are together,
All alone in the night.
They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears:
He is only back with the children,
In the dear and peaceful years.
And still, as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go trooping home to rest,
My husband calls from his corner,
Say, love, have the children come ? »
And I answer, with eyes uplifted,
“Yes, dear! they are all at home. ”
(C
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
[Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. ]


## p. 16452 (#152) ##########################################

16452
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LITTLE BOY
L
(
ITTLE boy, whose great round eye
Hath the tincture of the sky,
Answer now, and tell me true,
Whence and what and why are you?
And he answered, “Mother's boy. ” –
Yes, yes, I know,
But 'twas not so
Six years ago.
You are mother's anxious joy,
Mother's pet,
But yet
A trouble came within the eye
That had some tincture of the sky.
I looked again: within that eye
There was a question, not reply.
I only shaded back his hair,
And kissed him there:
But from that day
There was more thinking and less play;
And that round eye,
That had a tincture of the sky,
Was somewhat shaded in its sheen;
It looked and listened far away,
As if for what cannot be seen.
Then I turned about and cried,
But who am I,
Prompting thus the dawning soul?
I cannot hide
The want of a reply,
Though traveling nearer to the goal
Where we take no note of time;
I can only say I AM,-
A phrase, a word, that hath no rhyme,-
The name God called himself, the best
To answer the weak patriarch's quest.
((
Why talk nonsense to a child ? »
Asks the mother from the fire,
Listening through both back and ears,
Listening with a mother's fears:
"Already is he something wild,


## p. 16453 (#153) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16453
Says that he can fly down-stair!
I do desire
You questioning men would have a care;-
He is my child, my only one,–
You'll make him try to touch the sun! »
WILLIAM BELL Scott.
MO CÁILIN DONN
He blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,
And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee;
And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,
All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!
THE
Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is the coming of my true love — my own Cáilin Donn!
O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!
Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn!
Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, etc.
Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, o chestnut! to the dells;
Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me my own Cáilin Donn!
Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, etc.
She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;
There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;
Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won,
Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn!
Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is your coming, O my true love
- my own Cáilin Donn!
-
GEORGE SIGERSON.


## p. 16454 (#154) ##########################################

16454
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
UNTO THE LEAST OF THESE LITTLE ONES
From Harper's Magazine. Copyright 1889, by Harper & Brothers
O
CHILDREN's eyes unchildlike! Children's eyes
That make pure, hallowed age seem young indeed -
Wan eyes that on drear horrors daily feed;
Learned deep in all that leaves us most unwise !
Poor wells, beneath whose troubled depths Truth lies,
Drowned, drowned, alas! So does my sad heart bleed
When I remember you; so does it plead
And strive within my breast - as one who cries
For torture of her first-born — that the day,
The long, bright day, seems thicker sown for me
With eyes of children than the heavens at night
With stars on stars. To watch you is to pray
That you may some day see as children see
When man, like God, hath said, “Let there be light. ”
Dear Christ, thou hadst thy childhood ere thy cross;
These, bearing first their cross, no childhood know,
But, aged with toil, through countless horrors grow
To age more horrible. Rough locks atoss
Above drink-reddened eyes, like Southern moss
That drops its tangles to the marsh below;
No standard dreamed or real by which to show
The piteous completeness of their loss; ,
No rest, no hope, no Christ: the cross alone
Borne on their backs by day, their bed by night,
Their ghastly plaything when they pause to weep,
Their threat of torture do they dare to moan;
A darkness ever dark across their light,
A weight that makes a waking of their sleep.
Father, who countest such poor birds as fall,
Count thou these children fallen from their place;
Lift and console them of thy pity's grace,
And teach them that to suffer is not all;
Hedge them about with love as with a wall,
Give them in dreams the knowledge of thy face,
And wipe away such stains as sin doth trace,
Sending deliverance when brave souls call.
Deliver them, O Lord, deliver them! -
These children - as thy Son was once a child !
Make them even purer than before they fell,


## p. 16455 (#155) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16455
Radiant in raiment clean from throat to hem;
For, Lord, till thou hast cleansed these sin-defiled,
Of such the kingdom, not of heaven, but hell.
AMÉLIE Rives.
TIRED MOTHERS
A
LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,–
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch:
You almost are too tired to pray, to-night.
But it is blessedness! A year ago
I did not see it as I do to-day:
We are so dull and thankless, and so slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only good.
And if, some night, when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,
This restless, curly head froin off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, -
I could not blame you for your heartache then.
I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap or jacket, on my chamber floor;
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
And hear it patter in my home once more;
If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,–


## p. 16456 (#156) ##########################################

16456
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But, ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest has flown:
The little boy I used to kiss is dead !
May RILEY SMITH.
THE BEDOUIN-CHILD
(Among the Bedouins, a father in enumerating his children never counts his
daughters, for a daughter is considered a disgrace. )
I
LYÀS the prophet, lingering 'neath the moon,
Heard from a tent a child's heart-withering wail,
Mixt with the message of the nightingale,
And entering, found, sunk in mysterious swoon,
A little maiden dreaming there alone.
She babbled of her father sitting pale
'Neath wings of Death — 'mid sights of sorrow and bale,
And pleaded for his life in piteous tone.
“Poor child, plead on,” the succoring prophet saith,
While she, with eager lips, like one who tries
To kiss a dream, stretches her arms and cries
To heaven for help, — “Plead on: such pure love-breath
Reaching the Throne, might stay the wings of Death,
That in the desert fan thy father's eyes. "
The drouth-slain camels lie on every hand;
Seven sons await the morning vultures' claws;
'Mid empty water-skins and camel-maws
The father sits, the last of all the band.
He mutters, drowsing o'er the moonlit sand,
“Sleep fans my brow; Sleep makes us all pashas:
Or if the wings are Death's, why, Azreel draws
A childless father from an empty land. ”
“Nay,” saith a Voice, “the wind of Azreel's wings
A child's sweet breath hath stilled; so God decrees;”
A camel's bell comes tinkling on the breeze,
Filling the Bedouin's brain with bubble of springs
And scent of flowers and shadow of wavering trees,
Where, from a tent, a little maiden sings.
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.


## p. 16457 (#157) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16457
A BURMESE PARABLE
WS
ith look of woe and garments rent,
She walked as one whose strength is spent,
And in her arms a burden dread
She bore, - an infant cold and dead.
Men stood beside, and women wept,
As through the gathering throng she crept,
And fell at last, with covered face,
Before the Buddha's seat of grace.
With startled gaze each Brahmin priest
Drew near: at once the Master ceased
His golden words; for he could read
The suffering spirit's inmost need,
And give with subtlest skill the cure
Which best that spirit could endure.
He bade her speak. She faltered wild,
« They told me thou couldst heal my child! ”
"It may be so, but thou must bring
To me this simple offering,-
Some seeds of mustard which have grown
By homes where death was never known,
Nor tears have fallen beside the grave
Of mother, brother, child, or slave.
Go to the happy and the free,
And of their store ring thou to me. )
She rose in haste, and all that day
She went her melancholy way.
No door was shut, for pitying eyes
Her quest beheld in kind surprise ;
But every stranger answering said,
« We too have looked upon the dead, -
We too have wept beside the grave
Of mother, brother, child, or slave. ”
At set of sun alone she stood
Within the vine-entangled wood,
And uttered sadly, "I perceive
That every living heart must grieve.
Brief happiness had made me blind
To common griefs of humankind;
My eyes are open now to see
That all the world has we with me. ”


## p. 16458 (#158) ##########################################

16458
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Beneath the branches sweet and wild
She made a cradle for her child,
And watched until she saw afar
The village lamps, star after star,
Gleam, burn, and fade. « Our lives,” she said,
“Like lamps of night will soon be fled
Sleep soft, my child, until I come
To share thy rest and find thy home. »
FRANCES L. Mace.
LULLABY
LE
ENNAVAN-MO,
Lennavan-mo,
Who is it swinging you to and fro,
With a long low swing and a sweet low croon,
And the loving words of the mother's rune ?
Lennavan-mo,
Lennavan-mo,
Who is it swinging you to and fro?
I'm thinking it is an angel fair,-
The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair
And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair.
Lennavan-nio,
Lennavan-mo,
Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro?
It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar;
It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-mooned star;
It is He, Lennavan-mo,
To whom you and I and all things flow.
Lennavan-mo,
Lennavan-mo,
It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree,
But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky,
So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity –
Bonnie wee lass that you are,
My morning-star,
Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo,
Lennavan-mo.
FIONA MACLEOD.


## p. 16459 (#159) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16459
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE
GOOD painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw ?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
O
Woods and cornfields a little brown,-
The picture must not be over-bright, -
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud when the summer sun is down;
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels; - cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around, -
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound! )
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows open wide, -
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush,-
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the selfsame way
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me:
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,–
She is my mother; you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.


## p. 16460 (#160) ##########################################

16460
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me, –
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea, -
God knoweth if he be living now,
He sailed in the good ship Commodore;
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee;
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree
Which close in the edge of our fax-field grew,-
Dead at the top, -- just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir: for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat;
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,


## p. 16461 (#161) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16461
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie ?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me;
(I think 'twas solely mine, indeed;
But that's no matter, - paint it so ;)
The eyes of our mother (take good heed)
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, -
Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,
The mother, the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
ALICE CARY.
RACHEL
N°
TO DAYS that dawn can match for her
The days before her house was bare;
Sweet was the whole year with the stir
Of young feet on the stair.
Once was she wealthy with small cares,
And small hands clinging to her knees;
Now she is poor, and, weeping, bears
Her strange new hours of ease.
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.


## p. 16462 (#162) ##########################################

16462
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE DEAD MOTHER
A
s I LAY asleep, as I lay asleep,
Under the grass as I lay so deep,
As I lay asleep in my cotton serk
Under the shade of Our Lady's kirk,
I wakened up in the dead of night,
I wakened up in my death-serk white,
And I heard a cry from far away,
And I knew the voice of my daughter May:-
« Mother, mother, come hither to me!
Mother, mother, come hither and see!
Mother, mother, mother dear,
Another mother is sitting here:
My body is bruised, and in pain I cry;
On the straw in the dark afraid I lie;
I thirst and hunger for drink and meat,
And mother, mother, to sleep were sweet! »
I heard the cry, though my grave was deep,
And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.
I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,
Up I rose from my grave so deep!
The earth was black, but overhead
The stars were yellow, the moon was red;
And I walked along all white and thin,
And lifted the latch and entered in.
I reached the chamber as dark as night,
And though it was dark my face was white.
Mother, mother, I look on thee!
Mother, mother, you frighten me!
For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray! ”
But I smiled, and kissed her fears away;
I smoothed her hair and I sang a song,
And on my knee I rocked her long :
“O mother, mother, sing low to me –
I am sleepy now, and I cannot see ! »
I kissed her, but I could not weep,
And she went to sleep, she went to sleep.
As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep,
My May and I, in our grave so deep,
As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk,
l'nder the shade of Our Lady's kirk,


## p. 16463 (#163) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16463
I wakened up in the dead of night,
Though May my daughter lay warm and white,
And I heard the cry of a little one,
And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son:-
“Mother, mother, come hither to me!
Mother, mother, come hither and see!
Mother, mother, mother dear,
Another mother is sitting here:
My body is bruised and my heart is sad,
But I speak my mind and call them bad;
I thirst and hunger night and day,
And were I strong I would fly away! ”
I heard the cry though my grave was deep,
And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.
(
I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,
Up I rose from my grave so deep:
The earth was black, but overhead
The stars were yellow, the moon was red;
And I walked along all white and thin,
And lifted the latch and entered in.
Mother, mother, and art thou here?
I know your face, and I feel no fear;
Raise me, mother, and kiss my cheek,
For oh, I am weary and sore and weak. ”
I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy,
And he laughed aloud, my own brave boy;
I raised and held him on my breast,
Sang him a song and bade him rest.
“Mother, mother, sing low to me
I am sleepy now, and I cannot see ! »
I kissed him, and I could not weep,
As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.
As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep.
With my girl and boy in my grave so deep,
As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear,-
Awoke, but awoke not my children dear,-
And heard a cry so low and weak
From a tiny voice that could not speak;
I heard the cry of a little one,
My bairn that could neither talk nor run,-
My little, little one, uncaressed,
Starving for lack of the milk of the breast:


## p. 16464 (#164) ##########################################

16464
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And I rose from sleep and entered in,
And found my little one pinched and thin,
And crooned a song and hushed its moan,
And put its lips to my white breast-bone;
And the red, red moon that lit the place
Went white to look at the little face,
And I kissed, and kissed, and I could not weep,
As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.
As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep.
I set it down in the darkness deep,
Smoothed its limbs and laid it out,
And drew the curtains round about;
And into the dark, dark room I hied,
Where he lay awake at the woman's side;
And though the chamber was black as night,
He saw my face, for it was so white:
I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain,
And I knew he never would sleep again;
And back to my grave went silently,
And soon my baby was brought to me:
My son and daughter beside me rest,
My little baby is on my breast;
Our bed is warm and our grave is deep,
But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
LITTLE WILLIE
Pº
OOR little Willie,
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his looks,
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a workhouse grave.
You remember little Willie:
Fair and funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.


## p. 16465 (#165) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16465
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He crouched down to die.
In the day we wandered foodless,
Little Willie cried for bread;
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly sleep the dead.
'Twas in the dead of winter
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
On a tide of mirth.
But for lost little Willie
Not a tear we crave:
Cold and hunger cannot wake him
In his workhouse grave.
We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;
We loved him dutiful:
Down, down, poor heart !
The storms they may beat;
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not,
In his workhouse grave.
No room for little Willie;
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye
Through which looks no heart.
Come to me, said Heaven;
And if Heaven will save,
Little matters though the door
Be a workhouse grave.
GERALD Massey.
XXVIII-1030


## p. 16466 (#166) ##########################################

16466
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE APPARITION
I
IN the grayness rose:
I could not sleep for thinking of one dead.
Then to the chest I went
Where lie the things of my beloved spread.
Quietly these I took:
A little glove, a sheet of music torn,
Paintings, ill-done perhaps;
Then lifted up
dress that she had worn.
And now I came to where
Her letters are, they lie beneath the rest,-
And read them in the haze:
She spoke of many things, was sore opprest.
But these things moved me not:
Not when she spoke of being parted quite,
Of being misunderstood,
Or growing weary of the world's great fight.
Not even when she wrote
Of our dead child, and the handwriting swerved:
Not even then I shook ;
Not even by such words was I unnerved.
I thought — She is at peace;
Whither the child has gone, she too has passed,
And a much-needed rest
Is fallen upon her; she is still at last.
But when at length I took
From under all those letters one small sheet,
Folded and writ in haste,
Why did my heart with sudden sharpness beat?
Alas, it was not sad!
Her saddest words I had read calmly o'er.
Alas, it had no pain!
Her painful words, all these I knew before.
A hurried, happy line!
A little jest, too slight for one so dead:
This did I not endure;
Then with a shuddering heart no more I read.
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.


## p. 16467 (#167) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16467
THE OTHER ONE
S"
WEET little maid with winsome eyes
That laugh all day through the tangled hair;
Gazing with baby looks so wise
Over the arm of the oaken chair:
Dearer than you is none to me,
Dearer than you there can be none;
Since in your laughing face I see
Eyes that tell of another one.
Here where the firelight softly glows,
Sheltered and safe and snug and warm,
What to you is the wind that blows,
Driving the sleet of the winter storm?
Round your head the ruddy light
Glints on the gold from your tresses spun,
But deep is the drifting snow to-night
Over the head of the other one.
Hold me close as you sagely stand,
Watching the dying embers shine;
Then shall I feel another hand
That nestled once in this hand of mine -
Poor little hand, so cold and chill,
Shut from the light of stars and sun,
Clasping the withered roses still
That hide the face of the sleeping one.
Laugh, little maid, while laugh you may!
Sorrow comes to us all, I know ;-
Better perhaps for her to stay
Under the drifting robe of snow.
Sing while you may your baby songs,
Sing till your baby days are done;
But oh, the ache of the heart that longs
Night and day for the other one!
HARRY THURSTON PECK.


## p. 16468 (#168) ##########################################

16468
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
IN USUM DELPHINI
Hºw
ow fain were I, O Curly-pate,
To smooth the wrinkle from thy brow,
The tangled sentence to make straight,
Nor vex thee with the why and how.
But darker riddles for thee wait:
Who may emend the scroll of fate ?
That moldering myth of lust and hate
For thee how gladly I'd revise,
Nor suffer aught to desecrate
The gleam of those unsullied eyes:
This page I'd spare thee to translate;
But who man's heart can expurgate ?
In vain for boyhood's prince-estate
Our love betrays the bitter trust.
The Three no tribute will abate
From king or churl: all mortals must -
Or on the throne or at the gate
Read life's full lesson soon or late.
GEORGE M. WHICHER.
THE WOODSIDE WAY
I
WANDERED down the woodside way,
Where branching doors ope with the breeze,
And saw a little child at play
Among the strong and lovely trees:
The dead leaves rustled to her knees;
Her hair and eyes were brown as they.
“O little child,” I softly said,
“You come a long, long way to me;
The trees that tower overhead
Are here in sweet reality,
But you're the child I used to be,
And all the leaves of May you tread. ”
ETHELWYN WETHERALD,


## p. 16469 (#169) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16469
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR
A
YOUTH, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world;
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,
And straight again is furled.
Yet oft I dream that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.
I wake! Away, that dream,- away!
Too long did it remain!
So long, that both by night and day
It ever comes again.
The end lies ever in my thought; –
To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;
Then dropped the child asleep.
But now the dream is wholly o’er;
I bathe mine eyes and see;
And wander through the world once more,
A youth so light and free.
Two locks,- and they are wondrous fair,-
Left me that vision mild:
The brown is from the mother's hair,
The blond is from the child.
And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red;
And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.
GUSTAV PFIZER.
Longfellow's Translation.


## p. 16470 (#170) ##########################################

16470
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE BRAMBLE FLOWER
THY
why fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So put thou forth thy small white rose:
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O’er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers.
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are;
How delicate thy gauzy frill,
How rich thy branchy stem,
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head:
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in oy.
EBENEZER ELLIOT.
BEGONE, DULL CARE
B
EGONE, dull care!
I prithee begone from me;
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I can never agree.


## p. 16471 (#171) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16471
Long while thou hast been tarrying here,
And fain thou wouldst me kill;
But i' faith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.
Too much care
Will make a young man gray;
Too much care
Will turn an old man to clay:
My wife shall dance, and I will sing,
So merrily pass the day;
For I hold it is the wisest thing
To drive dull care away.
Hence, dull care!
l'll none of thy company;
Hence, dull care!
Thou art no pair for me.
We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold,
So merrily pass the day;
And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl,
We'll drive dull care away.
Author Unknown.
T"
THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER
HERE was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee; [he;
He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as
And this the burden of his song forever used to be:
«I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.
“I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;
I would not change my station for any other in life;
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me:
I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me. ”
When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay:
No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay;
No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say,
“Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day. ”
Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing:
The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;
This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring :
Let heart and voice and all agree to say, “Long live the king. ”
ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. "


## p. 16472 (#172) ##########################################

16472
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS!
I
've set my heart upon nothing, you see;
Hurrah!
And so the world goes well with me:
Hurrah!
And who has a mind to be fellow of mine,
Why, let hiin take hold and help me drain
These moldy lees of wine.
I set my heart at first upon wealth;
Hurrah!
And bartered away my peace and health:
But ah!
The slippery change went about like air,-
And when I had clutched me a handful here,
Away it went there!
I set my heart upon woman next;
Hurrah!
For her sweet sake was oft perplexed:
But ah!
The False one looked for a daintier lot,
The Constant one wearied me out and out,
The Best was not easily got.
I set my heart upon travels grand;
Hurrah!
And spurned our plain old fatherland:
But ah!
Naught seemed to be just the thing it should, -
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food!
My tastes misunderstood!
I set my heart upon sounding fame:
Hurrah!
And lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name;
And ah!
When in public life I loomed quite high,
The folks that passed me would look awry;
Their very worst friend was I.
And then I set my heart upon war:
Hurrah!
We gained some battles with éclat;
Hurrah !


## p. 16473 (#173) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16473
We troubled the foe with sword and flame-
And some of our friends fared quite the same:
I lost a leg for fame.
Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see;
Hurrah !
And the whole wide world belongs to me:
Hurrah!
The feast begins to run low, no doubt;
But at the old cask we'll have one good bout -
Come, drink the lees all out!
GOETHE.
Translation of John Sullivan Dwight.
DEATH AN EPICUREAN
D
EATH loveth not the woeful heart,
Or the soul that's tired of living.
Nay, it's up and away
With the heart that's gay
And the life that's worth the giving.
Seldom he stops where his welcome's sure,
Where age and want are sighing.
Nay, it's up and away,
For he scorns to stay
With the wretch who would be dying.
Ah, it's youth and love and a cloudless sky
The epicurean's after.
Nay, it's up and away
When the world's in May
And life is full of laughter.