THE INVITATION

Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one, And let us be walking the meadows so fair, Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes, And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair.

Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by; Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown; Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear, Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down.

Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare; Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane; To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes, Come, love, and let us be happy again.

Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue; Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook Where you and I pledged our first love so true.

TO THE LARK

Bird of the morn, When roseate clouds begin To show the opening dawn Thou gladly sing'st it in, And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales.

Bird of the morn, What time the ruddy sun Smiles on the pleasant corn Thy singing is begun, Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil, Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil.

Bird of the sun, How dear to man art thou!

When morning has begun To gild the mountain's brow, How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest, Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest.

Bird of the Summer's day, How oft I stand to hear Thee sing thy airy lay, With music wild and clear, Till thou becom'st a speck upon the sky, Small as the clods that crumble where I lie.

Thou bird of happiest song, The Spring and Summer too Are thine, the months along, The woods and vales to view.

If climes were evergreen thy song would be The sunny music of eternal glee.

GRAVES OF INFANTS

Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose.

G.o.d is their parent, so they need no tear; He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes, A bud their lifetime and a flower their close.

Their spirits are the Iris of the skies, Needing no prayers; a sunset's happy close.

Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes; Flowers weep in dew-drops o'er them, and the gale gently sighs.

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.

Each death Was tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by.

They bowed and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh, And the sun smiled to show the end was well.

Infants have nought to weep for ere they die; All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell, White flowers their mourners are, Nature their pa.s.sing bell.

BONNIE La.s.sIE O!

O the evening's for the fair, bonny la.s.sie O!

To meet the cooler air and join an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny la.s.sie O!

The bloom's on the brere, bonny la.s.sie O!

Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see The shed I've made for thee, Bonny la.s.sie O!

'T is agen the running brook, bonny la.s.sie O!

In a gra.s.sy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, And a bush to keep us dry, Bonny la.s.sie O!

There's the daisy all the year, bonny la.s.sie O!

There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, And the arum leaves unrolled, Bonny la.s.sie O!

O meet me at the shed, bonny la.s.sie O!

With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin Blushing, thy praise to win, Bonny la.s.sie O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny la.s.sie O!

When the bee sips in the beau, and grey willow branches lean, And the moonbeam looks between, Bonny la.s.sie O!

PHOEBE OF THE SCOTTISH GLEN

Agen I'll take my idle pen And sing my bonny mountain maid-- Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen, Nor of her censure feel afraid.

I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise, And please her eye with songs agen-- The ballads of our early days-- To Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

There never was a fairer thing All Scotland's glens and mountains through.

The siller gowans of the Spring, Besprent with pearls of mountain dew, The maiden blush upon the brere, Far distant from the haunts of men, Are nothing half so sweet or dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

How handsome is her naked foot, Moist with the pearls of Summer dew: The siller daisy's nothing to 't, Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view, She's sweeter than the blooming brere, That blossoms far away from men: No flower in Scotland's half so dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

MAID OF THE WILDERNESS

Maid of the wilderness, Sweet in thy rural dress, Fond thy rich lips I press Under this tree.

Morning her health bestows, Sprinkles dews on the rose, That by the bramble grows: Maid happy be.

Womanhood round thee glows, Wander with me.

The restharrow blooming, The sun just a-coming, Gra.s.s and bushes illuming, And the spreading oak tree;

Come hither, sweet Nelly, * * *

The morning is loosing Its incense for thee.

The pea-leaf has dews on; Love wander with me.

We'll walk by the river, And love more than ever; There's nought shall dissever My fondness from thee.