Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've

won,

And, with thine own dear hand the meed sup

plying,

Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son

The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!

L'

AILSIE, MY BAIRN.

IE in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,

Lie in my arms and dinna greit;

Long time been past syn I kenned you last,

But my harte been allwais the same, my swete.

Ailsie, I colde not say you ill,

For out of the mist of your bitter tears, And the prayers that rise from your bonnie eyes Cometh a promise of oder yeres.

I mind the time when we lost our bairn,

Do you ken that time? A wambling tot,

You wandered away ane simmer day,

And we hunted and called, and found you not.

I promised God, if He'd send you back, Alwaies to keepe and to love you, childe; And I'm thinking again of that promise when I see you creep out of the storm sae wild.

You came back then as you come back now,
Your kirtle torn and your face all white;
And you stood outside and knockit and cried,
Just as you, dearie, did to-night.

Oh, never a word of the cruel wrang,

That has faded your cheek and dimmed your ee;

And never a word of the fause, fause lord, —

Only a smile and a kiss for me.

Lie in my arms, as long, long syne,

And sleepe on my bosom, deere wounded thing,

I'm nae sae glee as I use to be,

Or I'd sing you the songs I use to sing.

But Ile kemb my fingers thro' yr haire,

And nane shall know, but and I,

you

Of the love and the faith that came to us baith

When Ailsie, my bairn, came home to die.

CORNISH LULLABY.

UT on the mountain over the town,

Ουτ

All night long, all night long,

The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and crooning a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,
This is ever their dolorous tune:

Deep in the hill the yeoman delves
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
See his toil and hear his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings

As merrily ever his pick he swings,

And merrily ever this song he sings:

66

Gold, gold! ever more gold,

Bright red gold for dearie!"

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed

All night long, all night long, Happy to smooth thy curly head

And to hold thy hand and to sing her song; 'Tis not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old, Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold, And the burden it beareth is not of gold; But it's "Love, love! - nothing but love, —

Mother's love for dearie!"