English

God did forbid the Israelites, to bring
An Asse unto Him, for an offering:
Onely, by this dull creature, to expresse
His detestation to all slothfulnesse.

He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree,
He trimmed it, an' he wet it, an' he thumped it on his knee;
He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs,
He missed the craggit heron nabbin' puddocks in the seggs,
He forgot to hound the collie at the cattle when they strayed,
But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!

He wheepled on 't at mornin' an' he tweetled on 't at nicht,
He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o' sicht,
The kye were late for milkin' when he piped them up the closs,

Come , list to a song for the Harvest:
Thanksgiving and honor and praise
For all that the bountiful Giver
Hath given to gladden our days.

For the grain and the corn in their plenty,
For the grapes that were gathered with song;
For pumpkins so brave with their yellow,
They had lived upon sunbeams so long;

For cranberries down in the meadow,
And the buckwheat that flames on the hill,
And blueberries tempting the children
To wander and pick them at will;

For the peaches that blush through their pallor,

Through what cold Oceans, since what ancient year,
—O pearly Shell and fragile, who shall say!—
The surge, the current and the tide have they
Whirled you in their abysses green and drear?

Far from the bitter floods, you now have here
Made a soft bed of golden sand and grey;
Your hope is vain; long and despairing, aye
In you the sea's great moaning voice we hear.

Sonorous to its core my soul is, for,
As from your whorl in plaintive accents pour
The sob and sighing of the sea's old stir,

See the grey silver of the oak-boughs,
As they swarm up the hill-slope
And down towards the sea.
The branches twist and twine one over the other,
And the trunks, with the growth of saplings,
Are misshapen and crooked.
The Atlantic winds
Have smoothed them and silvered them,
And then have added the beauty
Time puts upon the work of the silversmith
Carved centuries ago.

But was it for this confusion of boughs,
This profusion of locking twig,
This mingling of leaves,
One twisted tree with another,

Dear George, in serio-cynic way
We turn our thoughts to you to-day;
Not George the singularly pure
Tongued laddie
Who could not lie, but George the man
Who could. . . . Sometimes we wonder, can
This be the country of which you're
The daddy?

The same, George. No, not quite the same.
We've gathered wealth, and strength, and fame,
Improved upon the parent stock,
Grown wiser.
(One moment, George. Prince Henry's here.
Excuse us while we add our cheer:
“Hoch!”—or, as most of us say, “Hock!—

He argues best who never girds,
But puts Hard Facts in clear, Soft Words.

It helps alike both Him and You
To get Another's Point of View.

One Lying Argument may wreck your Plea,
However Strong in Truth your Cause may be.

The Talker used his Eloquence amiss
Who argued scrambling down the Precipice.

He knows the Truest Way to Teach
Who puts Great Thoughts in Simple Speech.

The Secret's safe from Friend and Foe
That you let No One know you know.

Walls have Ears; but no one cares
Unless a Tongue is also theirs.

What Greedy Ears receive, Loose Tongues betray;
But no one can Repeat what you Don't Say.

It was your Secret, yet you couldn't hold it!
And will he keep it, then, to whom you told it?

If , when done, you'd wish none knew it, Don't do it!

When I the winter wind can hear,
And blithely sings the hemlock tree,
And the moon's slim sickle glitters clear,
On a November sea.

So brave a mood the season shows,
He finds me jolly day by day;
I let my cares die with the rose,
And all my songs are gay!

So merrily then the frost king shakes
The snowy powder from his locks;
So merrily through the frozen brakes
I track the hungry fox;

Or when the enchanted floods congeal
By night to crystal pavements, bind
On eager feet the sounding steel,

I am stronger for having gone
Where I have never been.
I was nourished on milk of the dawn
That was mine for the drinking in.

I am better for what is mine
And for tonic of what I lack,
Better for the tremulous design
Of a leaf the moon made black.