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How aft hae I paused in thae green retreats,

O' the hare and the foggy-bee,
While the lintie lilted to his love—

As blithe as a bird could be;
And the yorlin sang on the whinny knowe,

In the cheery morn o' spring,
And the laverock drapt frae the cloud at e'en,

To fauld up her weary wing.

And the mavis sang in the thorny brake,

And the blackbird on the tree, And the lintwhite lilted to his love,

Far down in the gowany lee;
And the moss, and the cress, and the crawflour crept

Sae close to the crystal spring,
And the water cam wi' a laughin' loup,

And awa' like a living thing.

And it sang its way through the green retreats,

In a voice so sweet and clear,
That the rowan listened on the rock,

And the hazel leaned to hear;
And the water lilies raised their heads,
5 And the bells in clusters blue,

And the primrose came wi' its modest face, A' wat wi' the balmy dew.

And the hoary hawthorn hung its head—

As lapt in a blissful, dream, While the honeysuckle strained to catch

The murmurs o' that stream; And the buttercup and the cowslip pale,

To the green green margin drew, And the gowan cam and brought wi' her

The bonnie wee violet blue.

And the red red rose and the eglantine,

And the stately foxglove came, And mony an' mony a sweet wee flower,

That has died without a name;
While the burnie brattled down the brae,

In her ain blithe merry din,
And lept the rocks in a cloud o' spray,

And roared in the boiling lin.

And churned hersel into silver white,
Into bubbles green and gay,

And rumbled round in her wild delight,

'Neath the rainbow's lovely ray;
And swirled, and sank, and rose to the brim.

Like the snawdrift on the lee,
And then in bells o' the rainbow's rim,

She sang awa' to the sea.

But the trees are felled and the birds are gone.

And the banks are lone and bare,
And wearily now she drags her lane

Wi' the heavy sough o' care;
And fond lovers there shall meet nae mair,

In the lang lang simmer's e'en,
To pledge their vows 'neath the spreading boughs.

Of the birk and the beech sae green.

In a' my wanderings far or near,

Through thir woods sae wild and lane,
There was still ae spot to memory dear,

That I hoped to see again;
But I'll no gae back, I'll no gae back,

For my heart is sick and sair,
And I coudna' bide to see the wreck

O' a place sae sweet and fair.

But why should I mourn o'er the haunts o' youth,

Why sigh over beauty gane,
For it's come to this, oh a waefu' truth,

Man lives but by bread alane;
And all must bow to the works of art,

To the sound of wheels and steam,
And the poet tear from his bleeding heart,

His dear, his delightful dream.

MYSTERY.

Mystery! mystery!

All is a mystery,
Mountain and valley, and woodland and stream,

Man's troubled history,

Man's mortal destiny,
Are but a part of the soul's troubled dream.

Mystery! mystery!

All is a mystery,
Heart throbs of anguish and joy's gentle dew,

Fall from a fountain,

Beyond the great mountain, Whose summits forever are lost in the blue.

Mystery! Mystery!

All is a mystery, The sigh of the night winds, the song of the waves;

The visions that borrow

Their brightness from sorrow, The tales which flowers tell us, the voices of graves.

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