Was almost set, he sung that song to cheer
The aged folks; upon the inverted quern
The father sat; the mother's spindle hung
Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun thread;
Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed
Upon her son, and inly blest the Lord
Sudden a noise
That he was safe returned.
Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel
Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band
Glare all around, then single out their prey.
In vain the mother clasps her darling boy;
In vain the sire offers their little all:
William is bound; they follow to the shore,
Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they stand,
And view in mute despair the boat recede.
CAROLINE OLIPHANT, of the Oliphants of Gask, author of two beautiful
THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
I'm wearin' awa', John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John;
I'm wearin' awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, John;
There's neither cauld nor care, John;
The day's aye fair
I' the land o' the leal.
Our bonny bairn's there, John;
She was baith gude and fair, John;
And, oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal,
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John-
And joy's a-comin' fast, John-
The joy that's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glistening e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John;
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, baud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it's wearin' through, John;
And I'll welcome you
To the land o' the leal.
Now, fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We'll meet, and we'll be fain,
In the land o' the leal.
THE laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great,
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well;
M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as new;
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat,
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the gray mare, and rade cannily—
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee:
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine:
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low,
And what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;"
And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'.
Dumbfoundered he was-nae sigh did he gie;
He mounted his mare-he rade cannily;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen-
But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.
The Farmer's Boy," was born at Bury St Edmunds. father was in poor circumstances, and died while he was a child. His uncle, a farmer, took charge of him for some time, but ultimately he was apprenticed to a London shoemaker. In this situation we find him at thirty-two, married, and the father of two children. About the same time he published his "Farmer's Boy," which became speedily popular. It procured him besides a situation in the Seal Office, which, however, he had ultimately to resign from bad health. His latter days were spent in poverty and neglect, his friends having vainly tried to obtain for him a pension from the Crown. He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, ón 19th August 1823.
FROM THE FARMER'S BOY."
O COME, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art,
Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my heart;
Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy,
That poverty itself can not destroy,
Be thou my Muse, and faithful still to me,
Retrace the steps of wild obscurity.
No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse;
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe till breath itself stands still:
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charmed mine eyes,
Nor science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my raptures flow:
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!
Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells;
But mould to Truth's fair form what memory tells.
The farmer's life displays in every part
A moral lesson to the sensual heart.
Though in the lap of plenty, thoughtful still,
He looks beyond the present good or ill;
Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth,
From changeful seasons, or capricious earth!
But views the future with the present hours,
And looks for failures as he looks for showers;
For casual as for certain want prepares,
And round his yard the reeking haystack rears;
Or clover, blossomed lovely to the sight,
His team's rich store through many a wintry night.
What though abundance round his dwelling spreads,
Though ever moist his self-improving meads
Supply his dairy with a copious flood,
And seem to promise unexhausted food;
That promise fails when buried deep in snow,
And vegetative juices cease to flow.
For this his plough turns up the destined lands,
Whence stormy winter draws its full demands;
For this the seed minutely small he sows,
Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows.
But how unlike to April's closing days!
High climbs the sun and darts his powerful rays;
Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through
The cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough.
O'er heaven's bright azure, hence with joyful eyes
The farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise;
Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls,
And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls.
'Right welcome down, ye precious drops," he cries;
But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies.
"Boy, bring the harrows, try how deep the rain
Has forced its way." He comes, but comes in vain.
Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks,
And mocks his pains the more the more he works
Still, 'midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn,
That laugh his harrows and the showers to scorn,
E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool,
Resists the stormy lectures of the school,
Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please,
His head imbibes right reason by degrees;
As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour,
Light constant rain evinces secret power,
And ere the day resumes its wonted smiles,
Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles.
Down with a touch the mellow soil is laid,
And your tall crop next claims his timely aid;
Thither well pleased he hies, assured to find
Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say-past friendship to renew-
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still.
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But ruse at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool. confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
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