AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE.
A DARK fir-wud hings ower the burn, That wannerin' jinks roun' monny a turn, Far doon oot through the lanely dell, By whilk ance leev't my Cousin Bell.
A strappin', gracefu', blithesome queen, Wi' coal-black hair an' glancin' een; Nae muirlan' lass mair trig an' snellAn' jist nineteen was Cousin Bell.
Her faither rentit a bit mailin',
It wadna pay-his health was failin'; He had nae dochter but hersel',
But brithers seven had Cousin Bell.
"Callants," quo' he, "nae mair we'll toil For nocht; we'll seek anither soil; Yon joiner lad, ye've a' heard tell, Will wed an' keep at hame oor Bell."
For Canada they made them boune- A house was ta'en in the neist toon, Whar wi' her young guidman to dwell, Weel ettle't she-oor Cousin Bell.
Ae Sabbath sittin in the kirk,
Her heart grew caul', her een grew mirk; Ye couldna guess what there befell Tae blast the luve, the life o' Bell.
Purpose o' marriage was proclaimed "Tween her betroth'd an' ane they namedIntae her faither's arms she fell,
"Oh, tak' me wi' ye!" murmur'd Bell.
On board they laid her in her berth, For she was dune wi' a' on yirth;
They thocht the waves wad ring her knell, An' hide the pale, sweet face o' Bell.
Her weary head she seldom shiftit; Her mournfu' een she seldom liftit- Oh! wae betide the traitor fell
That brak the heart o' Cousin Bell.
She kiss't them a'-her mither's cheek She langest presst-but didna speak; But time an' change can ne'er expel Their love an' grief for Sister Bell.
She leev't tae see the promist lan'- The icy waves that lash the stran' Of great St Lawrence rung her knell- Rest, rest in peace, dear Cousin Bell.
On far Iowa's prairie lan',
Four yet survive o' that fair ban'; An' aften mournfu' memories swell The brithers' hearts for Sister Bell!
CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA-EXPOSTULATION.
No darker record on the roll of time Was e'er inscribed to country, age, or clime, By the red hand of war-so barbarous, frantic; The war you wage-mad cousins transatlantic.
Your glorious land of men and gold you drain— And seas of blood and festering hills of slain. Bankrupt and beggar'd: in your every state These are your gains, you'll sum them up too late.
Sons of the Union-ah! a mighty change
Your words and deeds have wrought-beyond the range Of British sympathy your cause you place; We almost blush to own your kindred race.
Your freedom's dead. Her last expiring groan Comes o'er the waters wild; a shudd'ring moan Wails through your forests, echoes round your hills, We hear, and Britain's heart with horror thrills.
Yes, freedom of the press! the tongue, the mind, Henceforth ye must be deaf, and dumb, and blind: Lincoln and Seward wills it. Kiss your chains, And sing of conquest in triumphant strains.
And "Stowe," thou gifted daughter of the North, Friend of the Southern slave, we call thee forth: Let truth and candour guide thy graphic pen; Denounce white slavery in the Northern men.
Columbian dames! do ye sustain your part? The weeping, blushing blood of woman's heart, Say-does it pulse your veins and dye with shame Your blushing cheeks at Butler's branded name?
Of braggart speech that spurns at check or rule, Like "idiot's tale of sound and fury full;" You feed on lies that fail you at your need,
Nor heaven nor earth will bid your cause God-speed.
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