Mary Howitt. CORNFIELDS. WHEN HEN on the breath of autumn breeze, Goes floating like an idle thought The fair white thistle-down, Oh then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest hill! What joy in dreamy ease to lie And see all round on sun-lit slopes I feel the day-I see the field, I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one, And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabite, so fair, Among the gleaners stooping there. Again I see a little child, His mother's sole delight, God's living gift unto The kind, good Shunammite; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, That eighteen hundred years ago O golden fields of bending corn, The sunshine and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there. William Motherwell. JEANIE MORRISON. 'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, I'VE Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ac laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but O, mind ye how we hung our heads, (The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran off to speel the braes,— My head rins round and round about- As ane by ane the thochts rush back O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, As closely twined wi' earliest thochts Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed |