Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, What time the pea puts on the bloom, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! JOHN LOGAN. Auld Robin Gray. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye at hame, And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane, The waes o' my heart fall in showers from my e'e, While my gudeman sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naithing else beside: To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie went to sea, And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He had nae been gane a year and a day, When my faither brake his arm, and our cow was stole away; My mither she fell sick, and Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting to me. My faither could na wark, my mither could na spin, My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back, Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me! My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, I had na been a wife a week but only four, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he, Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say,— I gang like a ghaist, but I care not to spin; I dare not think on Jamie, for that would be a sin; So I will do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. LADY ANNE BARNARD. Mary's Bream. THE moon had climbed the highest hill And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. "Three stormy nights and stormy days The storm is past, and I at rest; "O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" What is Time? JOHN LOWE. I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs, 'Time is the warp of life," said he; “O, tell Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, I asked the Seasons, in their annual round, That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak. Consulted, and it made me this reply,- I asked old Father Time himself at last; But in a moment he flew swiftly past, His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. I asked the mighty angel who shall stand One foot on sea and one on solid land: "Mortal!" he cried, "the mystery now is o'er; Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more! WILLIAM MARSDEN. The Groves of Blarney. THE groves of Blarney, they look so charming, Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks, All decked with posies, that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order in the rocky nooks. "T is there the daisy, and the sweet carnation, The blooming pink, and the rose so fair; Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly All flowers that scent the sweet, open air. "T is Lady Jaffers owns this plantation, There's gravel walks there for speculation, For 't is there's the cave where no daylight enters, Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. "T is there's the lake that is stored with perches, All standing in order for to guard the flood. |