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Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe :
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil :
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde :
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline ;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new ;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thec wcipe.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doc grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricves me sair to see thee wcipe.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth!

The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue !
What is there left for me to do,

But fly, — fly

From the cruel sky,
And hide in the deepest deeps, — and die ?



0, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak

Sae my true love did lightly me !

O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

A little time while it is new;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew. 0, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ;
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin.
0, 0, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !


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My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break ;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake !
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, -
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane !
It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will;
But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair !
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.
0, wae's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met,
O, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
O, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hailin' ower your chin :
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart ; O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet !

How fast my life-strings break ! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

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.

But O, 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!




But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
There is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
But one dead lamb is there !

Shall we behold her face.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The air is full of farewells to the dying, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
And mournings for the dead;

That cannot be at rest,
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.



We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

February 23, 1858.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition :

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

BURIED to-day.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south-wind comes a shout
Of village boys and girls at play
In the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,
But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew halftheir light from him,
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring, – - on this spring day.

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Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,

Invade thy bounds ; no mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,

TO THE MEMORY OF “ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, While angels watch the soft repose.

JUNE 6, 1860. "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seek.

est thou ! She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, So Jesus slept ; God's dying Son

Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Passed through the grave, and blest the bed : him.” – JOHN XX. 15. Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne In the fair gardens of celestial peace The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, Break from his throne, illustrious morn ;

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Attend, ( earth, his sovereign word; Restore thy trust; a glorious form

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; DR. ISAAC WATTS.

And when he walks, each floweret to his will

With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

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“Two hands to work addrest

Aye for his praise ;
Two feet that never rest

Walking his ways;
Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears ;

Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears": So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these !



When the hours of day are numbered,

And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered

To a holy, calm delight, –

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlor wall ;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door,
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more :

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life !

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more !

And with them the being beauteous

Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

0, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died !


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