Poems of a Later Date.

The Milk Maid.

When summer's sun had sunk to rest,
And evening brown'd the dale,
A lovely, rose-complected miss,
Came tripping o'er the vale;
Without a cap, or bonnet on-
Her hair played with the gale,
And on a little half-bent arm
Dangled her-milking pail.

Her white foot was the snowflake's fall,
While on to barnyard speeding

With childish jollity and glee,

For milk and for feeding:
"Hay, hay for old Muly," she said,
And clumb the tall haystack,
When poor, hungry Muly ball'd out
At lots and gobs i' the rack.

Now, pail in hand, the maiden said,
"To milkin I will go,"

As three-legged stool adown she sat,
And sung:-"So, Muly, so;

(78)

So, so, take supper now on hay,
Then sleep till morning go,
And I'll awake thee at daylight—
But, so! So, Muly-so!

So, Mule! You ugly thing you, so!
Sich work I'll not endure,—
You switch your fly-brush in my eyes
I'll lick thee jist so sure!

Then, so Mule-so! so now and hise,
You mean, old sow you, hise!

As on her stool adown she sat
To milk her in a trice.

Two-handed miss with might and main Made fast the nectar flow,

Nor thought aloud of ought save this Queer song "so, MULY, so!' Though Muly stood still as a post,

Her jolly song was—" So,”Loved ditty, dear to milk-maids all Her own-so, Muly, so!

But Muly now impatient grew-
At nothing 't all I vow,
And little miss as hasty said,

"The witches ails the cow! Now Mule, you ugly huzzy, so— Why will you act up. thus?

When every time I come to milk
Thou kickest up a fuss.

You dirty, clumsy heifer you-
An old cow and so wild!
Hah! serpent of a critter you,

The witches have you spiled!
Now, so! you cross old varmint, so,—
You'd better so and hise!"
And rosy maiden's three-legged stool
Did give her beatings thrice.

"So, Muly-so,"-as miss' hand
Gave Muly's hip to "hise,"
"Now stand a little bit or more,
I'll milk thee in a trice:-
So, Muly-so-so, slutty, so,-
When lo! stalk still she stood!
That pretty maiden's pail was fill'd
While Muly-chew'd her cud.

Robert Pollok.

See Scotia's Bard-"in humble dwelling born,"
To bless, refine and elevate mankind!

Bard of the heart and Poet of the soul,

Prince of the lyre and Muse of Holy Song,

Beloved on Earth but more beloved in Heaven,

Honor'd by men but honor'd more of God;

Religion's bless'd, fair Virtue's most approv'd-
Perfection's model and her brightest gem.

Bless'd Bard! by God's own hand thy harp was tun'd

On Time, on Life, on Death, Redeeming Love,

To charm with music sweet the Poet's ear

And feed with heavenly fruit the good-man's soul:Hail, holy Bard! by all the Muses bless'd

Poesy's chef-d'œuvre et ne plus ultra.

To John Calvin.

John Calvin, cease for Non Elect to pray,

Ah! canst thou turn black night to fairest day?

Their dreadful doom's inevitably seal'd,

And from their sulphur homes no power can shield. John Calvin, cease for the Elect to pray,—

Well might the stupid ass to Luna bray;

Would'st surer make what God hath made most sure?
Or, purer cleanse Perfection's heart-most pure?
All mankind are Elect or Non, you say,-

Then tell me this, good John:-'for whom you pray?'
Thou canst not tell! Ho! then, sir, squalk out thus:
'All prayer is vain and most superfluous!'

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Then, Calvin, why doth Holy Scripture say :

In everything give thanks and ceaseless pray?'

Mother and Babes.

A Mother smiles enchantment on her Babes!
Her bright, maternal smiles do brighten like
A day around the little, cherub-group,
Down-showering summer on the Eden-scene

Made sunny with affection of her heart.
Babes, round about, like rosy Cupids romp,
Her ornaments of admiration, love,

Her precious treasures beggaring Earth to buy-
The soft, the simple, tender little things!
Their plays, and artless prattle, wind around
The Mother's heart, demanding all her care
To train them up for Happiness and Heaven.
Full-feast and constant watch by night and day—
Sweet, spirit-mischiefs innocent as Loves!

Childhood.

In gentle Childhood's sunny hours
No cares disturb'd my mind;
Of racking pains knew I of none
Or sorrows could I find.

My heart was pure, my lips were clean,
From sin and folly free;

I had not tasted of the fruit
Of the Forbidden-tree.

I sat and talk'd the infant tongue
In health and joy and glee;
And smiling sat like gentle May
All on my Mother's knee.