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Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
“Oh for a soft and gentle wind!”
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high ;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free. The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners !
The wind is piping loud ;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR.
Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays,
So beautiful approve thee,
So winning light are all thy ways,
I cannot choose but love thee.
Thy balmy breath upon my brow
Is like the summer air,
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now,
To plant a soft kiss there.
Thy steps are dancing toward the bound
Between the child and woman,
And thoughts and feelings more profound,
And other years are coming :
And thou shalt be more deeply fair,
More precious to the heart,
But never canst thou be again
That lovely thing thou art !
And youth shall pass, with all the brood
Of fancy-fed affection ;
And grief shall come with womanhood,
And waken cold reflection.
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep
O’er pleasures unreturning,
Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep
Unto the cares of morning.
Nay, say not so! nor cloud the sun
Of joyous expectation, Ordain'd to bless the little one, The freshling of creation !
Nor doubt that He who thus doth feed
Her early lamp with gladness, Will be her present Help in need,
Her Comforter in sadness.
Smile on, then, little winsome thing !
All rich in Nature's treasure,
Thou hast within thy heart a spring
Of self-renewing pleasure.
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill
Of mirth, till time shall end it;
"Tis Nature's wise and gentle will-
And who shall reprehend it?
Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the Yorlin sing,
And pu’ the cress-flower round the spring ;
The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,
And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o’er the wa',
And lang may she seek i’ the green-wood shaw ;
Lang the laird of Duneira blame,
And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-bell rung,
Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin' lill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain,
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ;
When the ingle low'd with an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!
“Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt ånd den ;
By linn, by ford, by green-wood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen ?
That bonny snood o’the birk sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?”
Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her e'e,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew;
But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swaʼd a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam:
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green-wood there is a waik,
And in that waik there is a wene,
And in that wene there is a maike,
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane;
And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.
In that green wene Kilmeny lay,
Her bosom happ'd wi’ the flowerets gay;