Thy form is bent beneath oppressive thought,
Thy brow is burdened, and thy limbs give way;
Oh! bow the knee, fall prostrate, thing of naught!
Immortal is thy soul, death frees thy clay.

Thy moldering form its mother-earth will feed,
Thy glory, name, and memory must die,
But not thy love, if thou hast loved indeed,
Thy deathless soul will cherish it on high.

(From "ON THREE STEPS OF ROSE-COLORED MARBLE")

ALAS! and must we count it truth
That every rare and precious thing,
Flung forth at random, without ruth,
Trodden under foot may lie?

The crag, where, in sublime repose,
The eagle stoops to rest his wing,
No less than any wayside rose
Dropped in the common dust to die.
Can the mother of us all

Leave her work, to fullness brought,
Lost in the gulf of chance to fall,
As oblivion swallows thought?
Torn away from ocean's rim
To be fashioned at a whim,
Does the briny tempest hurl
To the workman's feet, the pearl?
Shall the vulgar, idle crowd
For all ages be allowed

To degrade earth's choicest treasure,

At the arbitrary pleasure

Of a mason or a churl?

VERGISS MEIN NICHT

REMEMBER! when the morn with sweet affright
Opens her portals to the king of day;

Remember! when the melancholy night

All silver-veiled pursues her darkling way;
Or when thy pulses wake at pleasure's tone;
When twilight shades to gentle dreams invite,
List to a voice which from the forest lone
Murmurs, Remember.

Remember! when inexorable fate

Hath parted finally my lot from thine,

When absence, grief, and time have laid their weight
With crushing power on this heart of mine;

Think of my love, think of my last farewell,
Absence nor time can constancy abate,

While my heart beats its every throb shall tell,
Remember.

Remember! when beneath the chilling ground
My weary heart has found a lasting sleep,
And when in after time, above the mound,
The pale blue flower its gentle watch doth keep;
I shall not see thee more, but ever nigh,

Like sister true my soul will hover round,

List to a voice, which, through the night will sigh,

Remember.

- Translation of W. H. Pollock.

LADY NAIRNE

BARONESS (CAROLINA OLIPHANT) NAIRNE, a Scottish poetess. Born at the house of Gask, Perthshire, July 16, 1766; died there, October 27, 1845. Author of "Lays from Strathearn." Among her songs are "The Laird of Cockpen," "The Land o' the Leal.”

She was called "The Flower of Strathearn," from her great beauty. Her authorship of the above works was kept secret until shortly before her death.

Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it's wearin' through, John;
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Now, fare-ye-weel, my ain John;
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We'll meet, and we'll be fain,

In the land o' the leal.

CALLER HERRIN'

WHA'LL buy my caller herrin'?
They're bonny fish and halesome farin';
Wha'll buy my caller herrin',

New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,
Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows,
Darkling as they faced the billows,
A' to fill the woven willows?

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're no brought here without brave daring. Buy my caller herrin',

Hauled through wind and rain.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?
Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin',
Wives and mithers maist despairing
Ca' them lives o' men.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

When the creel o' herrin' passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,

Cast their heads and screw their faces,

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

Caller herrin''s no got lightly,
Ye can trip the spring fu' tightly,
Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',
Gow has set you a' a-singin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

Neebor wives, now tent my tellin' :
When the bonny fish ye're sellin',
At ae word be in yer dealin';

Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'.
Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

THE HUNDRED PIPERS

Wr' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a';
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.
Oh! it's owre the Border awa', awa',
It's owre the Border awa', awa',
We'll on and we'll march to Carlisle ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castell, an' a', an' a'.

Oh! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,

Wi' their tartans, kilts, an' a', an' a',

Wi' their bonnets, an' feathers, an' glittering gear,
An' pibrochs sounding sweet and clear.

Will they a' return to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our Hieland men?
Second-sighted Sandy looked fu' wae,
And mothers grat when they marched away.

Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.

Oh wha is foremost o' a', o' a'?

Oh wha does follow the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', hurra!
Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.
His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high,