I hide with you in the fragrant hay, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness STILL sits the school-house by the road, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Long years ago a winter sun It touched the tangled golden curls, For near her stood the little boy His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt I'm sorry that I spelt the word: Because," the brown eyes lower fell, - Still memory to a gray-haired man He lives to learn, in life's hard school, JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' lang syne. |