And miss his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame?
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk
When the kye comes home.

JAMES HOGG.

LXXXVI

DUET

(IN ROSAMUND'S BOWER)

I. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead?

2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs

of the land.

I. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand,

One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering red?

2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea.

I. Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have fled?

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life

from the dead.

1. Keep him away from the lone little isle.

let us be.

Let us be,

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it-he,

it is he,

Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun

from the sea.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

LXXXVII

X

ΤΟ

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

LXXXVIII

THE POSIE

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae
green,

And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer;

And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet, bonny mou; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak'
away;

And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae

clear;

The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear,
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear, by a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er

remove,

And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.

LXXXIX

ROBERT BURNS.

THE LOVER'S SONG

WHEN Winter hoar no longer holds
The young year in his gripe,
And bleating voices fill the folds,
And blackbirds pair and pipe;
Then coax the maiden where the sap
Awakes the woodlands drear,

And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap,
And sweet words in her ear.

For Springtime is the season, sure,
Since Love's game first was played,
When tender thoughts begin to lure
The heart of April maid,

Of maid,

The heart of April maid.

When June is wreathed with wilding rose,

And all the buds are blown,

And O, 'tis joy to dream and doze

In meadows newly mown;

Then take her where the graylings leap,

And where the dabchick dives,

Or where the bees in clover reap
The harvest for their hives.
For Summer is the season when,
If you but know the way,

A maid that's kissed will kiss again,
Then pelt you with the hay,
The hay,

Then pelt you with the hay.

When sickles ply among the wheat,

Then trundle home the sheaves, And there's a rustling of the feet Through early-fallen leaves; Entice her where the orchard glows With apples plump and tart,

And tell her plain the thing she knows, And ask her for her heart.

For Autumn is the season, boy,

To gather what we sow:

If you be bold, she won't be coy,

Nor ever say you no,

Say no,

Nor ever say you no.

When woodmen clear the coppice lands,
And arch the hornbeam drive,

And stamp their feet, and chafe their hands,
To keep their blood alive;

Then lead her where, when vows are heard,
The church-bells peal and swing,
And, as the parson speaks the word,

Then on her clap the ring.

For Winter is a cheerless time

To live and lie alone;

But what to him is snow or rime,

Who calls his love his own,

His own,

Who call his love his own?

ALFRED AUSTIN.

XC

THE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;
Above, the frequent feudal towers