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And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin 's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockin's pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
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 lang awa'.

There 's twa fat hens upo' the bauk
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

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

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth, I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;

And gin I live to keep him sae
I 'm blest aboon the lave.

And will I see his face again,

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

JEAN ADAM.

A WINTER EVENING AT HOME
Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.

WILLIAM COWPER (The Task).

HOME, SWEET HOME

MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain :
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again !
The birds singing gaily that came at my call ;

Give me them and the peace of mind dearer than all !
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME

Ir 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree;
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame, fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

There 's naught now frae ruin my country can save
But the keys o 'kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the top o' their grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee,
"I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.

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It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME

'WAY down upon the Swanee Ribber,
Far, far away,

Dare 's wha my heart is turning ebber, -
Dare's wha de old folks stay.

All

up and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam;

Still longing for de old plantation,

And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered,

When I was young;

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder,
Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dare let me live and die!

All de world am sad and dreary, etc.

One little hut among de bushes,—

One dat I love,

Still sadly to my memory rushes,
No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming,
All round de comb?

When will I hear the banjo tumming
Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary, etc.
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME

THE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home;
'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;

The corn-top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day;
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,

All merry, all happy, all bright;

By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

CHORUS.

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!
We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;

The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;

The time has come when the darkeys have to part,
Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

Weep no more, my lady, etc.

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days, and the troubles all will end,

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow;

A few more days to tote the weary load,
No matter, it will never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road,
Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

Weep no more, my lady, etc.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

IN A STRANGE LAND

OH, to be home again, home again, home again!
Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill ;
Mother is calling me, father is calling me,
Calling me, calling me, calling me still.

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering
Through the green meadows and over the hill;
Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me,
Calling me, calling me, calling me still.

Oh, once more to be home again, home again,
Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill,-
Do you not hear how the voices are calling me,
Calling me, calling me, calling me still?

JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were

young,

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of springtime sung!

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But, oh, the sweet, sweet, violets, the flowers that opened first! There is no place like the old place where you and I were born! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore,

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more !

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days,

No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side,

There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. There are no times like the old times they shall never be

forgot!

There is no place like the old place — keep green the dear old spot!

There are no friends like our old friends - may Heaven prolong

their lives!

There are no loves like our old loves - God bless our loving wives!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood
When fond recollection presents them to view!-
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!

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