She writes a little-for love, not fame; Has publish'd a book with a dreary name; And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal, The only answer that I can see For I am a fellow of no degree, The Latin they thrash'd into me at school away: At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say. But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the kind of study that I think fine Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, Those learned lips that the learned praiseAnd to clasp her close as in sillier days; To talk and joke in a frolic vein, To tell her my stories of things and men ; And it never strikes me that I'm profane, For she laughs and blushes, and kisses again; And, presto! fly! goes her wisdom then! For boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Roaring to see her so bright with mirth; And I know she deems me (oh the jest!) The cleverest fellow on all the earth! And Hermioné, my Hermioné, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, When I lounge, after work, in my easy- Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, chair; Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, And the butterfly mots blown here and there By the idle breath of the social air. Hermioné, my Hermioné! What could your wisdom perceive in me? As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about! And my lady-wife with the serious eyes Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, And looks, although she is deep and wise, As foolish and happy as he or I! And I have the courage just then, you see, To kiss the lips of Hermioné— And the silly pride in her learnèd face! That is the puzzle I can't make outBecause I care little for books, no doubt; But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why, For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and I ROBERT BUCHANAN. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John; And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBERT BURNS. LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE, WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA. IF thou wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale! If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gaily would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course nor Delhi's kingly gates For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But never were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! REGINALD HEBER. TO MY WIFE. Он, hadst thou never shared my fate, But thou hast suffer'd for my sake, My fond affection thou hast seen, To think more happy thou hadst been And has that thought been shared by thee? But there are true hearts which the sight How unlike some who have profess'd But ah! from them to thee I turn,- From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 189 THE WINSOME WEE THING. SHE is a winsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; She is a winsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. ROBERT BURNS. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. To be a moment's ornament; I saw her, upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene TO MARY. "THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed"- If she, by merit since disclosed, I plead that double merit now And teach me all things-but repentance. SAMUEL BIshop. THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds fling by your wheel! For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue; It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise up and mak a clean fireside, And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the bank They've fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, When he was far awa'? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't And will I hear him speak? Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, And will I hear him speak? For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house JEAN ADAM. THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and day-time, in dreams I behold thee; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten; Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. O Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom! Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple; Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming! You have been glad when you knew I was gladden'd; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sadden'd? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love; You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to morrow; Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. |