TANNAHILL. ROBERT TANNAHILL. the midgeS DANCE ABOON THE | How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft BURN. fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its man tle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. BAYARD TAYLOR. ON THE HEADLAND. I SIT on the lonely headland, And the sea is gray below. In the world's deserted round. I pine for something human, Man, woman, young or old,Something to meet and welcome, Something to clasp and hold. I have a mouth for kisses, But there's no one to give and I have a heart in my bosom O warmth of love that is wasted! In all the living land? I could fondle the fisherman's baby, I could take the sunburnt sailor, I could clasp the hand of any The sea might rise and drown me; THE FATHER. THE fateful hour, when death stood by But yesterday, and thee the earth Inscribed not on her mighty scroll: To-day she opes the gate of birth, And gives the spheres another soul. But yesterday, no fruit from mne The rising winds of time had hurled To-day, a father,―can it be A child of mine is in the world? I look upon the little frame, As helpless on my arm it lies: Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name, God's earliest name in Paradise. Like Him, creator too I stand: His power and mystery seem more near; Thou giv'st me honor in the land, And giv'st my life duration here. But love, to-day, is more than pride; Love sees his star of triumph shine, For life nor death can now divide The souls that wedded breathe in thine: Mine and thy mother's, whence arose My own young eyes look up to me. Look on me, child, once more, once more, Even with those weak, uncon scious eyes; Stretch the small hands that help implore; Salute me with thy wailing cries! And stretched his threatening hand This is the blessing and the prayer in vain, Is over now, and life's first cry Speaks feeble triumph through its pain. A father's sacred place demands: Ordain me, darling, for thy care, And lead me with thy helpless hands! |