It's the way o' the Warl' whan your troubles are sair,
An' you're doon i' the dirt, aye to tramp ye the mair;
Ye
may warssle an' grane, ye may murther an' cry,
Wi' a glunch or a sneer she wull gang her wa's by!
It's the way o' the Warl' to think maist o' braid-claith
An' the weel-plenisht purse-Oh, hoo weel she likes baith!
The thin, raggit doublet she canna weel thole,
An' she ne'er cou'd pit up wi' a pouch an' a hole!
It's the way o' the Warl' aye to soun' weel the fame-
Nae odds hoo he gat it-o' the chiel wi' a name;
But the nameless, though giftit, are caul' i' the yird,
Ere a sang or a word i' their praise she wull mird!
Then maybe she'll say, when he's streekit an' caul'"Puir chiel! I aye thocht him a gude kin' o' saul;" An' syne ower his grave she'll big a wheen stanes, An' sit on the tap o't, an' greet ower his banes!
Noo, your way wi' the Warl's juist to let her alane,
Ne'er fash her wi' yammerin'-ne'er mak' ye a mane-
Ne'er haud up yersel' an' your sairs to her een—
She's ower thrang wi' hersel', an' she cares na a preen!
Juist help ye yersel', an' there's Ane that wull help: Whan the Warl' steeks ye oot, ne'er sit doon an' yelp Like a doug, but bear bauldly your heid, like a man-Keep your e'e an' your hert aye abune gif ye can!
Noo, Warl', hae I wrang't ye?-thou kens best thysel'; Let them that hae tried thee and lippen't thee tell; But, hark! i' your lug, my puir hard-wurkin' brither, Lippen aye maist to Heaven, to yersel', an' your mither.
WRITTEN FOR MRS. J. CLELAND, ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SON AND
My olive plant, so green and fair;
My budding hope, my dearest care;
My only one! He only knew
Who gave-and, ah! how soon withdrew
The precious gift-how dear I loved
My plant on earth; and though removed
To higher climes and brighter skies,
With mournful tread and weeping eyes
I wander round his early tomb-
But light from heaven dispels the gloom!
An angel voice falls on my ear,
"Whom seek'st thou, weeping mother, here?
He is not here: thy son hath risen-
"Tis but his shattered, mortal prison
Lies there. Oh! would'st thou ever dwell
With him thou loved on earth so well?
Then Jesus seek, the Saviour know;
He'll pardon, peace, and heaven bestow,
Where thy loved plant shall bloom for ever,
And thou wilt join him ne'er to sever."
FAIRY Spring, in kirtle green,
Stealing through the woods, is seen
Gliding o'er the freshening meadow
Bright with sunshine, dim with shadow,
Smiling on the lambkins skipping-
Children through the green lanes tripping.
High o'er head, on quivering wings,
The lark his jubilant anthem sings,
And thousand swelling feather'd throats
Are warbling clear their amorous notes.
Now with gentle hand she raises
From the sod her infant daisies,
Bids her sleeping violets rise,
Kissing fond their dewy eyes;
Scented buds of golden yellow,
Honey sweet adorn the willow,
And the drooping hyacinth bells
Tint with heaven's own blue the dells,
Where the primrose lurks below
Snowy sheets of blossomed sloe.
Treading slow the bramble brake,
Curled and coiled like sleeping snake,
The curious botanist discerns
The dark brown youngling's of the ferns; From flowers of " Araby," the blest, Ne'er were sweeter odours pressed
Than budding birch and sweetbriar shed
On thy radiant youthful head.
Virgin Spring! then come again;
We hail thine advent, bless thy reign;
Come with airs soft, genial, calm,
Shedding flowers and breathing balm:
May human labour, human love,
And gentle peace thy reign approve.
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