Lost nae time, for weel we knew, In our sleeves fu' weel we knew, When the gloaming came that night, Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock, Would be found by candlelight. When our chaffering a' was done, All was paid for, sold and done, We drew a glove on ilka hand, We sweetly curtsied each to each, And deftly danced a saraband. The market lasses looked and laughed, Left their gear and looked and laughed; They made as they would join the game, But soon their mithers, wild and wud, Wi' whack and screech they stopped the same. Sae loud the tongues o' raudies grew, Was thrust out ilka hand and face. And down each stair they thronged anon; Gentle, simple, thronged anon; Souter and tailor, frowzy Nan, The ancient widow young again Simpering behind her fan. Without choice, against their will, Doited, dazed against their will, The market lassie and her mither, The farmer and his husbandman, Hand in hand danced a' thegether. Slow at first, but faster soon, Still increasin' wild and fast, Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, Blindly doffed, and frae them cast, Left them naked, heads and toes. They would hae torn us limb frae limb, There was Jeff the provost's son, All goodly men we singled out, And drew them by the left hand in, - Then wi' cantrip kisses seven, Three times round wi' kisses seven, Like the wind that sucks the sea, Over and in and on the sea, Laughed while they had sense or breath; Drawn up was I right off my feet, Into the mist and off my feet; We'll gang ance mair to yon town, For I was born a crowned king's child, Elspie's gowden husbandman; JOSEPH BRENNAN. COME TO ME, DEAREST. 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 | I would not die without you at my side, 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. love, As the Old Custom bade, nor did he miss A single detail of the dark old forms Required of the bereaved, for he had made Himself a model for all living men: Now when the years of mourning with their rites Were at an end, Confucius came forth And wandered as of old with other men, Giving his counsel unto many kings; But still the hand of grief was on his heart, And his dark hue set forth his darkened hours. To drive away these sorrows from his soul, Remembering that music had been made | And of the melody whose key is God. A moral motive in the golden books He played upon the Kin- the curious lute Invented by Fou-Hi in days of old; Fou-Hi of the bull's head and dragon's form, The Lord of Learning who upraised mankind From being silent brutes to singing men. Now I will travel to the land of Kin, And know this sage of music, great Siang, And learn the secret lore which hides within All sweet well-ordered sounds." He went his way, Nor rested till he stood before the man. Thus spoke Siang unto Confucius: Thou who hast studied deeply the Koua The eight great symbols of created things Knowest the sacred power of the line Which when unbroken flies to all the worlds As light unending,—but in broken forms Falls short as sky and earth, clouds, winds, and fire, The deep blue ocean and the mountain high, And the red lightning hissing in the wave. The mighty law which formed what thou canst see, As clearly lives in all that thou canst hear, And more than this, in all that thou canst feel. Here, take thy lute in hand. I teach the air Made by the sage Wen Wang of ancient days." Confucius took the lute and played the air Till all his soul seemed passing into song; Then he fell deep into the solemn chords As though his body and the lute were And when Siang would teach him more, | That which I never yet myself beheld, To which the master answered: "It is well. Take five days more!" And when the time was passed Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius: Is very dim. I am as one who looks And nothing sees except a luminous cloud: Give me but five more days, and at the end If I have not attained the great idea And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away, I am as one who stands upon a cliff When he composed that air. I speak to him, I hear him clearly answer me again; His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam With great benevolence, -a noble face! His voice is deep and full, and all his air Inspires a sense of virtue and of love. I know that I behold the very man, The sage of ancient days, Wen Wang the just." Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, And said: "Thou art my master. Even thus The ancient legend, known to none but me, Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen Though I have played the sacred song for years, Striving with all my soul to penetrate Its mystery unto the master's form, Whilst thou hast reached it at a single bound: Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune." MINE OWN. AND O, the longing, burning eyes! Which waves around me, night and day, And O, the step, half dreamt, half heard! O, art thou Sylph, -or truly Self, – "O, some do call me Laughter, love; "And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play": "O, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway!" "And some do call me Sorrow, love, And some do call me Tears, And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears. "And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness" :"And if thou com'st as one or all, Thou comest but to bless !" "And some do call me Life, sweetheart, She twined her white arms round his neck: The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die, We'll never part again." Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more. The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave. How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar, When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale! How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke! So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood; |