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Her white arm wad be a pillow for me

Far safter than the down; And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve,

Come here, and kneel wi' me! The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,

An' I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers. The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; Our gudeman leans owre his kaleyard dyke, And a blithe auld bodie is he. The beuk maun be taen when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie; And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

SHE'S GAME TO DWELL IN
HE A VEN.

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,

She's gane to dwall in heaven: Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, For dwalling out o' heaven!

O, what'll she do in heaven, my lassie?

O, what'll she do in heaven? She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,

An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,

She was beloved by a';
But an angel fell in love wi' her,

An' took her frae us a'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,

Low there thou lies, A bonnier form ne'er went to the yard,

Nor fra it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,

Fu' soon I'll follow thee; Thou left me naught to covet ahin'

But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow o' heaven

Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm; but gane was the holy breath o' heaven,

To sing the evening psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,

There's naught but dust now mine; My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'?

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A Wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast — And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on our lee.

"O for a soft and gentle wind!"

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the swelling breeze,

And white waves heaving high,— The white waves heaving high, my lads,

The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

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THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S
GRA VE.

Husband and wife! no converse now ye hold,

As once ye did in your young days of love,

On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays.

Its silent meditations and glad hopes, Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;

Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss

Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares

Call you not now together. Earnest talk

On what your children may be, moves you not.

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence; Not like to that in which ye rested once

Most happy,—silence eloquent, when heart

With heart held speech, and your

mysterious frames, Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat, Touched the soft notes of love.

A stillness deep, Insensible, unheeding, folds you round,

And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in;

Away from all the living, here ye rest, In all the nearness of the narrow tomb,

Yet feel ye not each other's presence now; —

Dread fellowship ! — together, yet alone.

Why is it that I linger round this tomb?

What holds it? Dust that cumbered

those I mourn. They shook it off, and laid aside

earth's robes,

And put on those of light. They' re

gone to dwell In love, — their God's and angels'!

Mutual love, That bound them here, no longer

needs a speech For full communion; nor sensations,

strong,

Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain

To be set free, and meet their kind in joy.

Changed to celestials, thoughts that

rise in each By natures new, impart themselves,

though silent. Each quickening sense, each throb

of holy love, Affections sanctified, and the full

glow lone, or being, which expand and gladden By union all mysterious, thrill and

live

In both immortal frames;—sensation all,

And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought!

Ye paired, yet oneI wrapt in a consciousness

Twofold, yet single, — this is love, this life!

THE SOUL.

Come, brother, turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;

Come, send abroad a love for all who live,

And feel the deep content in turn

they give. Kind wishes and good deeds,—they

make not poor; They '11 home again, full laden, to thy

door;

The streams of love flow back where

they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep

within.

Even let them flow, and make the places glad

Where dwell thy fellow - men. —

Shouldst thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once

happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy

loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then

shalt hear The music of those waters running

near;

And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,

And thine eye gladden with the playing beam

That now upon the water dances, now Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?

In thine own bosom, brother? Then as thine

Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state, But temper of the soul by which we rate

Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom

move

With noble thoughts and wake thee

into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be

given

An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven,

And springing into act, new life imparts,

Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. Sin clouds the mind's clear vision from its birth.

Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth.

The earth is full of life; the living Hand

Touched it with life; and all its forms

expand

With principles of being made to suit Man's varied powers and raise him

from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be

full,—

Earth which thou tread'st, — and thy

poor mind be dull? Thou talk of life, with half thy soul

asleep?

Thou "living dead man," let thy

spirit leap Forth to the day, and let the fresh

air blow

Through thy soul's shut-up mansion.

Wouldst thou know Something of what is life, shake off

this death; [breath Have thy soul feel the universal With which all nature's quick, and

learn to be [see; sharer in all that thou dost touch or

Mary Lee

MY AIN COUNTREE.

Yu far frae my name, an' I'm weary

aftenwhiles, For the langed-for hame-bringing, an'

my Father's welcome smiles; I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine

een do see The shining gates o' heaven, an' mine

ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony

tinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my

Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will

as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my

ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise that

some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace his banished

hame will bring: Wi' een an wi' hearts runnin' owre,

we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain

countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,

But there they 'll never vex me, nor be remembered malr;

Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;

Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;

Love, joy, even sorrow,—yield thyself to all!

They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall.

Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind

To dust and sense, and set at large the mind 1

Then move in sympathy with God's great whole,

And be like man at first, a living soul.

Demarest.

His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e,

When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee

birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my

Saviour's breast: For he gathers in his bosom, witless,

worthless lambs like me, An' carries them himsel' to his ain

countree.

He's faithful' that hath promised, he'll surely come again,

He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;

But he bids me still to wait, and ready aye to be

To gang at any moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye an' singin' o' my hame as I wait,

For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the shining gate;

God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me,

That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

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