Volume Vi Part 17 (1/2)

Then long and loud their weeping was, And sore was their lament, And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi, And back to Moab went; But gentle Ruth to Naomi Did cleave with close embrace, And earnest spoke, with loving eyes Up-gazing in her face-- ”Entreat me not to leave thee, Nor sever from thy side, For where thou goest I will go, Where thou bidest I will bide, Thy people still my people, And thy G.o.d my G.o.d shall be, And where thou diest I will die, And make my grave with thee.”

So Naomi, not loath, was won Unto her gentle will; And thence, with faces westward set, They fared o'er plain and hill; The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem Rose fair upon their sight, A rock-built town with towery crown, In evening's purple light, Midst slopes in vine and olive clad, And spread along the brook, White fields, with barley waving, That woo'd the reaper's hook.

Now for the sunny harvest field Sweet Ruth her mother leaves, And goes a-gleaning after The maids that bind the sheaves.

And the great lord of the harvest Is of her husband's race, And looks upon the lonely one With gentleness and grace; And he loves her for the brightness And freshness of her youth, And for her unforgetting love, Her firm enduring truth-- The love and truth that guided Ruth The border mountains o'er, Where her people and her own land She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart, And years of soft repose Did recompense her patient faith, Her meekly-suffer'd woes; And she became the n.o.blest dame Of palmy Palestine, And the stranger was the mother Of that grand and glorious line Whence sprang our royal David, In the tide of generations, The anointed king of Israel, The terror of the nations: Of whose pure seed hath G.o.d decreed Messiah shall be born, When the day-spring from on high shall light The golden lands of morn; Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale Of tenderness and truth-- Of the gentle deed of Boaz And the tender love of Ruth.

SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest; Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger, Shall ne'er to the home of his people return; His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger, No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion, King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just; For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on, Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.

THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifes.h.i.+re. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of ”Whistle-binkie.” In 1845 he edited a poem, ent.i.tled ”The Minister's Kail-yard,” which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the ”Book of Scottish Song” he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in _Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.

THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_”There 's nae Luck about the House.”_

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whiles mair than in a score; But wae betak' the stouin smack I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore; Fou brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door.

The wa's are thick--ye needna fear; But, gin they jeer and mock, I 'll swear it was a start.i.t cork, Or wyte the rusty lock.

There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; An' as for me, I could hae crept Into a mouse's hole.

The mither look't--saffs how she look't!-- Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door.

Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he puff'd his pipe, An' never fash'd his thumb; But, t.i.tterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters four-- A winter's nicht for me they micht Hae stood ahint the door.

There 's meikle bliss, &c.

”How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?”

The bauld gudewife began; Wi' that a foursome yell got up-- I to my heels and ran.