English

O that I were the wee herd loon
That basks upo' yon sunny lea!
Ilk ither wish I wad lay doon,
A laddie herdin' kye to be

I'd lose the little lear' I ha'e,
And learn the herdie's simple arts—
To build a housie 'mang the strae;
To mak' wee neep and tawtie carts;

To mak' a kep o' rashies green,
And learn the herdie's gleesome lauch;
To mak' a rattle for the wean,
Or cut a whistle o' the sauch;

To licht a fire upon the muir,
That a' the herdies may sit doon;
Or set the whins on bleezin' fire,

Here Cromwell stood, that dark and frowning night,
Hemm'd in upon this desperate tongue of land,
The sea behind, the sea on either hand,
And, fronting him, the foe on yonder height
What chance for Cromwell in to-morrow's fight,
If thus the order of the battle stand!
He was but captain, the supreme command
He knew was His who, to the most lorn right,
Oft gives mysterious victory. And so,
Arm'd with this faith, of fear he never dream'd.
For ever with that man a Power there seem'd,
That conquer'd first the judgment of his foe,

Slip away to Slumber Land,
Baby, O, my baby,
Weary little foot and hand,
Baby, O, my baby;
You shall have a rattle, and
A woolly dog, a dragon grand:—
Finest fellow in the land,
Baby, O, my baby.

Cuddle down and close your eyes,
Baby, O, my baby,
See how snugly there he lies,
Baby, O, my baby;
Stars are peeping from the skies,—
How one so young can be so wise,
Is mightiest of mysteries,
Baby, O, my baby.

I T'S very, very queer the way
They call this, Night, and that, the Day,
And then to parcel off the space,
And give each Week a little place.

And then reduce to months and years,
Our sorrows, blisses, hopes and fears;
'Tis very, very strange to me,
That such a foolish thing should be.

My calendar and clock shall go,
I want no dates of joy or woe,
The dawn and dusk together blend,
And stars shine out unto the end.

And this is all; life is so sweet,
So grand, so glorious and complete,

Mild is the air of April,
Gentle the sky above,
And the budding and the mating
Call for a song of love;
But the season on my singing
Has lost its olden spell
Because of a shame and sorrow
Men close their eyes to tell.

I see but the tears of women
In the rain of the springtime flood;
I cannot brook the flowers—
They only smell of blood.
Sad is the playground frolic—
Its joy and laughter melt
In the moan of children sobbing
From jungle and from veldt.

O ye in the halls of council,

For me, true son of Erin, thou art rife,
Grand coast of Cornwall, cliff, and cave, and surge,
With glamour of the Kelt. Strong sons at strife
With wind and wave if healthier influence purge
Not wholly yet from wrecker's blood, nor merge
All in mild manners, yet there do not fail
Ancestral hero hearts and lives to urge
Their native virtue, that will never pale
In any strait, nor cringe, nor need to wear a veil.

Tired hearts' refreshment, friend, glad life was mine
Hearing rich music in Lamorna's bower;

At first the river's very small,
And can't float anything at all;
But later, as it journeys on,
It's large enough to float a swan.

It grows till it can safely float
A slim canoe and then a boat;
And later still, as like as not,
It manages to float a yacht.

And presently, when really large,
It takes a steamer, then a barge.
And last it passes busy quays
And floats great ships to foreign seas.

O God , forasmuch as without Thee
We are not enabled to doubt Thee,
Help us all by Thy grace
To convince the whole race
It knows nothing whatever about Thee.

Alas, alas, eheu!
That the sky is only blue,
To gather from the grass
The rain and dew!

Alas! that eyes are fair:
That tears may gather there,
Mist and the breath of sighs
From the marsh of care!

Alas, alas, eheu!
That we meet but to bid adieu:
That the sands in Time's ancient glass
Are so swift and few!

Alas, alas, eheu!
That the heart is only true
To gather, where false feet pass,
The thorn and rue!

Of Jonathan Chapman
Two things are known,
That he loved apples,
That he walked alone.

At seventy-odd
He was gnarled as could be,
But ruddy and sound
As a good apple tree.

For fifty years over
Of harvest and dew,
He planted his apples
Where no apples grew.

The winds of the prairie
Might blow through his rags,
But he carried his seeds
In the best deerskin bags.

From old Ashtabula
To frontier Fort Wayne,
He planted and pruned
And he planted again.