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LIGHT O' LOVE.

LIGHT O' LOVE.

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again."

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, "Adieu for evermore,

And adieu for evermore."

My love!

Sir W. Scott.

HIGHLAND MARY.

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HIGHLAND MARY.

YE banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

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O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

R. Burns.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers.

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SOFT Soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, Waft thy silver cloud-webs athwart the summer sea; Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining, Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.

Deep, deep Love, within Thine own abyss abiding, Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea; Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding, Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and

me.

Charles Kingsley.

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