Volume I Part 100 (1/2)
And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
ROCK ME TO SLEEP
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless sh.o.r.e, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,-- Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the gra.s.s has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between: Yet, with strong yearning and pa.s.sionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other wors.h.i.+p abides and endures,-- Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold.
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
THE BUCKET
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blus.h.i.+ng goblet would tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.