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"And there he sadly struggles on,

A heavy laden hack,
And oh, how often in the midst,

He's tempted to look back;
But time must not be wasted thus,

In unavailing tears,
Or want will catch him in the vale,

The gloomy vale of years.

"Now see him bending on his staff,

His locks are thin and gray,
And life that was so bright before,

Is all a winter's day;
And this new generation's ways,

He cannot understand,
So changed is all,—he feels himself

A stranger in the land.

"And o'er the happy days of youth,

He will, he must repine,
For oh, the world is nothing now,

To what it was lang syne;
And memory's lamp is waning fast,

With faint and fitful gleam,

The living and the dead are mixed,
Like phantoms in a dream.

"But childhood's streams are laughing yet,

Its fields are fresh and fair, And now, a little boy again,

The old man wanders there; Then feeble as a little child,

Upon its mother's breast, Resignedly he leans his head,

And sinks into his rest."


All hail again Atlantic Sea,

I've sought thy sounding shore,

To look upon thy face again,
And hear thy wild uproar;

An awful world of wonder thou
Hast ever been to me,

With thy secret caves beneath the waves,
Great, old sea.

Thou'rt still the same mysterious deep,

Thou wert in days of yore,
When first a wondering little boy,

I listened to thy roar;
O how my bosom did expand,

When first I gazed on thee,
With all thy sweep, as wild as deep,
Great, great sea.

The iron rocks are rent by time,
The mountains wear away,

The cliffs grow hoary with the years,
The hills are old and gray,

And generations pass away,
Like foam bells upon thee,

And when I'm gone thou'lt murmur
Great, old sea.

I love thee when the winds are laid,

And thou art all at rest,
I love thee when they revel wild

Upon thy troubled breast,
But O what can I ever know,

What can I sing of thee, Thou myst'ry, thou infinity, Great great sea. I WINNA GAE HAME.

I whma gae back to my youthful haunts,

For they are nae langer fair, The spoiler has been in the glades so green,

And there's sad sad changes there; The plou' has been to the very brink,

O' the lovely Locher fa', And beauty has fled wi' the auld yew trees,

And the bonnie wee birds awa.

Young Spring aye cam the earliest there,

Alang wi' her dear cuckoo,
And the weary Autumn lingered lang

Wi' her lonely cushy-doo;
And peace aye nestled in ilka nook,

O' the bonnie gowany glen, For it's always Sabbath among the flours,

Awa' frae the haunts o' men.

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