Volume Vi Part 4 (1/2)

I 've a guinea I can spend, I 've a wife, and I 've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I 've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a gla.s.s In my arbour as you pa.s.s, And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But ever when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown, The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I 've parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I 've a hundred pounds a-year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets Quiver from thy tender leaves; No one knows what thoughts between us Pa.s.s in dewy moonlight eves.

Roving memories and fancies, Travellers upon Thought's deep sea, Haunt the gay time of our May-time, O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight, Pure and kind, and good and fair, When she laugh'd the ringing music Rippled through the summer air.

”If you love me--shake the blossoms!”

Thus I said, too bold and free; Down they came in showers of beauty, Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the gra.s.s, the maiden Vow'd the vow to love me well; Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly, No one but myself can tell.

Widely spreads the smiling woodland, Elm and beech are fair to see; But thy charms they cannot equal, O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters Comes the cry; Wild are the waves around me-- Dark the sky: There is no hand to pluck me From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me, Clinging low, I am dash'd by angry billows To and fro; I hear death-anthems ringing In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes From my lips As I behold the distant White-sail'd s.h.i.+ps O'er the white waters gleaming Where the horizon dips.

They pa.s.s; they are too lofty And remote, They cannot see the s.p.a.ces Where I float.

The last hope dies within me, With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking, I can see The new moon's crescent sailing Pallidly: And one star coldly s.h.i.+ning Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature But my moan, The shriek of the wild petrel All alone, And roar of waves exulting To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages, Tempest trod; Strength fails me; coldness gathers On this clod; From the deep and troubled waters I cry to _Thee_, my G.o.d!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds; The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,-- And faintly stealing, Booming, pealing, Chime from the city the echoing bells; And louder, clearer, Softer, nearer, Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells; And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.