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UNKNOWN.

She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea;

An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';

Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see.

"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and

ran in;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee.

As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin',

"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang;

She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the trees sittin',

And the robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

"O, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?

If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to

be?

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The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea;

But Lucy likes Jamie;—she turned and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.

Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!

For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never

return!

UNKNOWN.

SUMMER DAYS.

IN summer, when the days were long, We walked together in the wood;

Our heart was light, our step was strong, Sweet flutterings were in our blood, In summer, when the days were long.

We strayed from morn till evening

came;

We gathered flowers, and wove us

crowns;

We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs;

And always wished our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook;

And still her voice flowed forth in song, Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon;

And in the sunlight and the breeze We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas.

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We found a heaven in every spot; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot.

In summer, when the days are long, Alone I wander, muse alone.

I see her not; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown,

In summer, when the days are long.

Alone I wander in the wood:
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see, so glad and good,
The honest daylight of her eyes,

That charmed me under earlier skies.

In summer, when the days are long,

I love her as we loved of old.

My heart is light, my step is strong;

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"Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead, —

For love brings back those hours of For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,

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For the wrecks of land and sea! But, however it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."

FRANCES BROWNE.

LOSSES.

UPON the white sea-sand

There sat a pilgrim band,

ROBERT NICOLL.

[1814-1837.]

WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

Telling the losses that their lives had A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would

known;

While evening waned away

From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tides went out with weary

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There were who mourned their youth

With a most loving ruth,

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My coat is a coarse ane, be fine,

an' yours may

For its brave hopes and memories ever And I maun drink water, while you may

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The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' | Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes

deride;

Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth

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Her

her home,

shrill cry coming through the
sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy, heaving sea
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently;

How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side;

From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the That feed about the vale among the rocks. flocks,

Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat

In former days within the vale; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered

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Amid the uproar of the storm,

And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,

Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air: Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge?

There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge.

THE SPECTRE HORSE.

HE's now upon the spectre's back, With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed!--the rein is slack Within his senseless hold; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides,

Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides.

He goes with speed; he goes with dread! And now they 're on the hanging steep!

And, now! the living and the dead, They'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short;-his feet are on the verge.

He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame.

From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,

On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip! And yet he does not speak, or make a

sound!

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ing there!

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