SUSANNA BLAMIRE. WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE. | Then I'll sit down and cry, WHAT ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? When thou art far awa', Thou 'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say. I used to meet thee there. And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca' 't a word frae thee. HARVESTING. And rival wits with more than rustic grace HARK! where the sweeping scythe Confess the presence of a pretty face. now rips along: Each sturdy mower, emulous and Come, Health! come, Jollity! light-When the slight covering of her neck footed, come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home. Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; slips by, There half revealing to the eager Her sight, full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white ? In many a local tale of harmless Of thought and texture, may assimi mirth, Cried," Spin no more."- Thou then wert left half filled With this soft downy fleece, such as she wound Through all her days, she who could spin so well. Half filled wert thou-half finished when she died! - Half finished? 'Tis the motto of Shall sweet retirement render strong, Build me a shrine, and I could kneel That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all. Where o'er my corse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumult fly With kindred feelings, press my grave. GLEANER'S SONG. DEAR Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored And worldly caresses, And servants that fly when she's waited upon: These fields, my dear Ellen, I knew them of yore, The birds round us singing, For pleasure is pure when affection is won: He shouted and ran, as he leapt from the stile; Of ardent caressing, When virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone. |