Volume Vi Part 22 (1/2)

Why seek this lonely place?

She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here, Widow'd one, widow'd one-- Nay, wipe away that tear, She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away, She 's at rest, she 's at rest, In everlasting day, With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there, All are past, all are past; That sigh summ'd up her care, 'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see, Sister dear, sister dear; That earth holds nought for thee, Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark, Haste away, haste away; Corruption is at work-- Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn, Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame; Let dust to dust return, Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear; There to G.o.d, there to G.o.d, Bend humble and sincere, 'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart-- He is kind, He is kind; Each bruised and bleeding part He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone-- Time will fly, time will fly-- Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one 'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of ”Rhymes and Poems by Robin,” a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht, Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock-- I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read; The lads and the la.s.ses around me a' flock, And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan', ”Hoo 's the markets,” says he, ”are they risen or fa'en?

Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?”

But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.