Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver ta.s.sie; That I may drink before I go A service to my bonnie la.s.sie.

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready, The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and b.l.o.o.d.y; But it's no the roar o' sea or sh.o.r.e Wad mak me langer wish to tarry, Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

_Burns._

XLV

DEVOTION

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see, That mak the miser's treasure poor.

How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw; Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the toun, I sighed, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

_Burns._

XLVI

TRUE UNTIL DEATH

It was a' for our rightfu' King, We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, My dear, We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear, For I maun cross the main.

He turned him right and round about Upon the Irish sh.o.r.e; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa, The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.

_Burns._

XLVII

VENICE

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those t.i.tles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pa.s.sed away.

_Wordsworth._

XLVIII

DESTINY

It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,'

Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have t.i.tles manifold.

_Wordsworth._

XLIX

THE MOTHERLAND

When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how enn.o.bling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?

But when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

But dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled.

What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

_Wordsworth._

L

IDEAL

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee; she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.