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Sae dear 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 soul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

Oh! haud ye leal and true, John,
Your day it's wearin' thro', 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.



WHAT is it to grow old?

Is it to lose the glory of the form,

The lustre of the eye?

Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?

Yes, but not this alone.


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Is it to feel our strength

Not our bloom only, but our strength — decay?

Is it to feel each limb

Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this, and more! but not,

Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be!

'Tis not to have our life

Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset glow,
A golden day's decline!

'Tis not to see the world

As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,

And heart profoundly stirr'd;

And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!

It is to spend long days

And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured.

In the hot prison of the present, month

To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this,

And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
Deep in our hidden heart

Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion


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It is last stage of all —

When we are frozen up within, and quite

The phantom of ourselves,

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost

Which blamed the living man.




THIS Relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?

By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,
As a Bride.

Beneath a summer tree,
Her maiden reverie

Has a charm;

Her ringlets are in taste;

What an arm! . . . what a waist
For an arm!

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Her lips are sweet as love;

They are parting! Do they move?

Are they dumb?

Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come!"

What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,

Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?

That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first

Saw this Lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.

Her locks, as white as snow, Once shamed the swarthy crow:


That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine :
Well I wot

With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit, -
Would she not?

Ah, perishable clay;

Her charms had dropt away
One by one:

But if she heaved a sigh

With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."

In travail, as in tears,

With the fardel of her years

In mercy

she was borne

Where the weary and the worn

Are at rest.

Oh, if you now are there,
And sweet as once you were,


This nether world agrees

You'll all the better please






DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn till night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.


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