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JEANIE MORRISON.

O DEAR, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my
path,

And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As Memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time!-twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

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An! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the
bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the
hour,

But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade

Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier; The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know,

But where is County Guy?

RIVER SONG.

SCOTT.

COME to the river's reedy shore,
My maiden, while the skies,
With blushes fit to grace thy cheek,
Wait for the sun's uprise:

There, dancing on the rippling wave,
My boat expectant lies,

And jealous flowers, as thou goest by, Unclose their dewy eyes.

As slowly down the stream we glide, The lilies all unfold

Their leaves, less rosy white than thou,

And virgin hearts of gold;
The gay birds on the meadow elm
Salute thee blithe and bold,
While I sit shy and silent here,
And glow with love untold.

F. B. SANBORN.

SONG FROM JASON.

I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,

And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,

The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green. Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I ery.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me

Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS.

OF A' THE AIRTS.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the west;
For there the bounie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.
There wild woods grow, and rivers
row,

Wi' mony a hill between;
Baith day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair,

I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air:

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