Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end, Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary, Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind, Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary; And appear in my verses all Summer, and be A memento of fondness and friendship for thee.

Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold, Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy: I place them as such in these verses so cold, But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary, These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field, And see what the valley and pasture land yield.

Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood, And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green; The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood, On the very same spot, as no changes have been-- In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves, And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves.

And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes, Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring; And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes, While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing; And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth,"

To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth.

Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines!

It speaks without words to the ear and the eye; The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines; They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy.

That you may remain so and your love never vary, I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary.

TO LIBERTY

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie?

Is there no heart thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody?

Is liberty herself a slave?

No! G.o.d forbid it! On, ye brave!

I've loved thee as the common air, And paid thee worship everywhere: In every soil beneath the sun Thy simple song my heart has won.

And art thou silent? Still a slave?

And thy sons living? On, ye brave!

Gather on mountain and on plain!

Make gossamer the iron chain!

Make prison walls as paper screen, That tyrant maskers may be seen!

Let earth as well as heaven be free!

So, on, ye brave, for liberty!

I've loved thy being from a boy: The Highland hills were once my joy: Then morning mists did round them lie, Like sunshine in the happiest sky.

The hills and valley seemed my own, When Scottish land was freedom's throne

And Scottish land is freedom's still: Her beacon fires, on every hill, Have told, in characters of flame, Her ancient birthright to her fame.

A thousand hills will speak again, In fire, that language ever plain

To sychophants and fawning knaves, That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves!

Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne, Is ruled by Nature's laws alone; And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath Will urge the claymore from its sheath.

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie?

Is there no harp thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody?

Is liberty herself a slave?

No! G.o.d forbid it! On, ye brave!

APPROACH OF WINTER

The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May, And Nature seemeth weary; The partridge coveys, shunning fate, Hide in the bleaching stubble, And many a bird, without its mate, Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.

On hawthorns shine the crimson haw, Where Spring brought may-day blossoms: Decay is Nature's cheerless law-- Life's Winter in our bosoms.

The fields are brown and naked all, The hedges still are green, But storms shall come at Autumn's fall, And not a leaf be seen.

Yet happy love, that warms the heart Through darkest storms severe, Keeps many a tender flower to start When Spring shall re-appear.

Affection's hope shall roses meet, Like those of Summer bloom, And joys and flowers shall be as sweet In seasons yet to come.

MARY DOVE

Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales To charm my lover's ear: Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales Where'er she shall appear; And gently wave the meadow gra.s.s Where soft she sets her feet, For my love is a country la.s.s, And bonny as she's sweet.

The hedges only seem to mourn, The willow boughs to sigh, Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn, To cheer me where I lie: The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn Sings loud his Summer lay; He seems to sing, both eve and morn, "She wanders here to-day."

The skylark in the summer cloud One cheering anthem sings, And Mary often wanders out To watch his trembling wings.

I'll wander down the river way, And wild flower posies make, For Nature whispers all the day She can't her promise break.

The meads already wear a smile, The river runs more bright, For down the path and o'er the stile The maiden comes in sight.

The scene begins to look divine; We'll by the river walk.

Her arm already seems in mine, And fancy hears her talk.

A vision, this, of early love: The meadow, river, rill, Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove, Are in my memory still.

SPRING'S NOSEGAY

The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun: Pewits watch it all the day, And the skylark's nest of hay Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.

There the pilewort, all in gold, 'Neath the ridge of finest mould, Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye: There the mouse his hole hath made, And 'neath the golden shade Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.

Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue: Was there anything more true To the vernal season still?

Here it decks the bank alone, Where the milkmaid throws a stone At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.

Here the cowslip, chill with cold, On the rushy bed behold, It looks for sunshine all the day.

Here the honey bee will come, For he has no sweets at home; Then quake his weary wing and fly away.

And here are nameless flowers, Culled in cold and rawky hours For my Mary's happy home.

They grew in murky blea, Rush fields and naked lea, But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.