AFTER RAIN.

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Plough-boy is whooping-anon--anon:
There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

W. Wordsworth.

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews,

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be!

R. Burns.

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush

Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird,

When shall I marry me?"
—“When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?"

"The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

"The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady."

Sir W. Scott.

158

O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.

O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.

O WERE my love yon lilac fair
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew’d.

O gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh! there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light.

R. Burns.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

IT is the miller's daughter,

And she's grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

A. Tennyson.