MY BOYS AND I. HEY have left me again to-day, As they often have left me before, When each, with his trunk and play box, Return'd to his school-boy lore. Each time they went they look'd bigger, Watching them climbing to reach me, But, to-day, as I parted from them, I said, I was taller than either, I see I'm no longer standing On the summit of life's long hill, But I must be passing downward, Whilst they will be mounting still. Oh, could I, my sons, but fling you One gift ere I quit the height, It would nerve you with strength and courage Could I give you the full experience Of a father's life bygone, It would be the noblest heritage But I have begun descending Of age from the young in bloom. And you upon life must enter, Is borne on the winds that blow. Young ears will not accept it, Young hearts will not believe; The son must fight his own battle, Which the father may see and grieve. But I hope that my boys will conquer, That their hearts are true and brave; The self within is their foeman, And they must not be his slave. If they offer a firm resistance To every foolish plea Of a bad and fallen nature, They may always continue free. For a Father, who never grows older, The summit of life's long hill. Alfred Gatty, D.D. THE ROWAN TREE. H! rowan tree, oh! rowan tree, thou❜lt aye be dear to me; Entwined thou art wi' mony ties o' hame and infancy, Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, thy flow'rs the simmer's pride; There was na sic a bonnie tree in a' the country side, Oh! rowan tree. How fair wert thou in simmer time, wi' a' thy clusters white; How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi' berries red and bright; On thy fair stem were mony names which now nae mair I see, But they're engraven on my heart, forgot they ne'er can be! Oh! rowan tree. We sat aneath thy spreading shade, the bairnies round thee ran, They pu'd thy bonnie berries red, and necklaces they strang, My mither, oh! I see her still, she smiled our sports to see, Wi' little Jeanie on her lap, and Jamie at her knee. Oh! rowan tree. Oh, there arose my father's prayer, in holy evening's calm, How sweet was my mither's voice, in the martyr's psalm! |