When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me! LANGLEY LANE. I BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. N all the land, range up, range down, Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet Just out of the bustle of square and street? And up above, the still blue sky For now, in summer, I take my chair, The distant murmur of street and square, And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; With her little hand's touch so warm and kind; Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, And I am older by summers three, Why should we hold each other so dear? Because she cannot utter a word, Nor hear the music of bee or bird, The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call! Because I have never seen the sky, Nor the little singers that hum and fly, - For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row; And the little one close at my side perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? That I only hear as they pass around; And I am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind, Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined And hold her hand and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, The song of the birds, the hum of the street, It is better to be as we have been, To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hear, Chirping of birds or patter of rain, And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though we never can married be, - |