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The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

She only said, “The day is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ; She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

And I would that I were dead !”

But 0, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be ;
And 0, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver green with gnarlèd bark,

For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, “My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”.

MARIANA.

With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all, The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange,

Unlifted was the clinking latch,

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary ;

I would that I were dead !”

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, “The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”.

Her tears fell with the dews at even ;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, “The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”.

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creaked, The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse

Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about.

Old faces glimmered through the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without.

She only said, “My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, “I am very dreary,

He will not come,” she said ;
She wept, “I am aweary, aweary,
O God, that I were dead !”

ALFRED TENNYSON.

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A WOMAN'S LOVE.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,

And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory : | “Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! She sobbed, “I found him by the summer sea

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — “ I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I sh

cinnato low She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!” fell.

She wept, “Now let my punishment begin! Love brought me down to death, and death to

I have been fond and foolish. Let me in Hell;

To expiate my sorrow and my sin.” For God is just, and death for sin is well.

The angel answered, “Nay, sad soul, go higher ! "I do not rage against his high decree,

To be deceived in your true heart's desire Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire !” But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

JOHN HAY.

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