OF A THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw

I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best.

There wildwoods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing :
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding:
There he sat!

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat.

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin, gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care:

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was Summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads, and little maidens;
Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool,"

OLD.

Its grave import still my fancy ladens: "Here's a fool!"

It was Summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play, Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. I remember well, too well, that day! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, Would not stay,

When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

OLD.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell;
Ah! to me her name was always Heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell:

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
Isabel!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told. Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow; Down it rolled!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old.

I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core :

I have tottered here to look once more.

All the picture now to me how dear!

E'en this gray old rock, where I am seated,

Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

Old stone school-house! —it is still the same: There's the very step I so oft mounted; There's the window creaking in its frame,

OLD.

And the notches that I cut and counted

For the game:

Old stone school-house! - it is still the same.

In the cottage, yonder, I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling: Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born.

Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under:
Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.

There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather·
Past its prime!*

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising:
Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails.