Volume Vi Part 20 (1/2)

A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around, The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd; While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse, With your love at my heart, your name on my lips; Your name on my lips, like a melody rare-- Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low, They seem to be breathing a burden of woe; They seem to be asking, why am I alone?

And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?

The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air, And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide, Recall your sweet image again to my side-- Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute; Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot; Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair, And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow, Beside the calm waters that slumber below, While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom, Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume; Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care, When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!

A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man, And I earn a little wage, And I have a little wife, In a little hermitage, Up a quiet little stair, Where the creeping ivy clings; In a mansion near the stars Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns, Full of prattle and of glee, And our little dwelling rings With their laughter, wild and free.

Of the greenwoods, all the day, I 've a little bird that sings; It reminds me of my youth, And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds, And no steamers on the sea; But my busy little hands Are a treasure unto me.

I can work, and I can sing, With a joy unknown to kings; While peace and plenty smile On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done, In my cosie ingle nook, With my little ones around, I can read a little book.

And I thank my lucky stars For whatever fortune brings; I 'm richer than a lord-- I 'm content with little things.

MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame, Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand, And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells, The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells, The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand, That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow, The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow; But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd, And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a la.s.s that looks out on the sea, Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me; Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand, Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.

WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung, And dinsome wheels are still, When engines rest, and toilers leave The workshop, forge, and mill; With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e, My gudewife welcomes me; Our bairnies clap their wee white hands, And speel upon my knee.