But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

at sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee', Said, “Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye na marry me?"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

The ship it was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father urged me sair: my mither didna speak;

But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ;

They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to

me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come home, love, to marry thee."

O, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a'! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa':

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

| I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[1757-1827.]

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Burned the fire of thine eyes?
In what distant deeps or skies
What the hand dare seize the fire ?
On what wings dare he aspire

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.

O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;

The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,
And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean,
Your task is ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, And joy's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that's aye to last,

In the Land o' the Leal.

A' our friends are gane, Jean;
We've lang been left alane, Jean;
But we'll a' meet again

In the Land o' the Leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean!
This world's care is vain, Jean!
We'll meet, and aye be fain

In the Land o' the Leal.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

[1766-1823.]

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,

And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock

Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock

I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,

And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,

Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,

And up they flew like banners in the wind;

Then gently, singly, down, down, down

they went,

And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant

came

A robin on the threshold; though so tame,

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