Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

WEE JEANIE'S LAMENT.

My mother sits and sighs,

And my father hangs his head, And he canna speak for sighs,

For our wee Johnny's dead. They wrapt him in a shroud,

That was whiter than the snow, And there cam a dolefu'.crowd

And they carried him awa!

And they laid him down to sleep

Where the willow-tree does wave And I often gang and weep

At our wee Johnny's grave. The licht o' joy is gone,

And there's sorrow in its stead: Oh! the world is fu' o' pain,

For our wee Johnny's dead!

HEROES!

All hail to the chiefs of thought,

Who wield the mighty pen! That light may at last be brought

To the darkened souls of men. To the gifted seers who preach—

To the humble bards who sing; To all the heads that teach

In truth's enchanted ring;

To the soldiers of the right—

To the heroes of the true; Oh! ours were a sorry plight,

Great conquerors, but for you! O ye are the men of worth!

0 ye are the men of might! O ye are the kings of earth,

And your swords are love and right

'Tis not at the beat of drum,
Earth's great ones do appear;

At the nation's call they come,
But not with the sword and spear.

Then hail to the brave who lead
In the humble paths of peace!

To the hearts that toil and bleed,
That wrong may the sooner cease!

Oh! what are the robes we wear,

Or the heights to which we climb! "Tis only the hearts we bear

Can make our lives sublime. 'Tis only the good we do,

That lives throughout all time; 'Tis only the faithful few

Who reach the height sublime.

Then hail to the chiefs of thought,

Who wield the mighty pen! That light may at last be brought

To the darken'd souls of men! To the soldiers of the right—

To the heroes of the true; Oh! ours were a sorry plight,

Great conquerors, but for you!

TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

{Writtenfor the Centenary.)

All hail! prince and peasant, the hour that gave birth To the heart whose wild beatings resound through the earth;

Whose sympathies nations nor creeds could not bind,
But gushed out in torrents of love to mankind.

Let the poor and the lowly look up and rejoice;
The dumb and down-trodden find in thee a voice;
The high and the lordly, in palace and hall,—
For thou wert the playmate and brother of all!

The old hoary mountain, the streamlet, and tree,
And all the dumb natures are kindred to thee;
The wee courin' beastie, the poor ourie kine,
Are all fellow-mortals—all brothers of thine.

Earth's proudest shall perish and sink to the tomb,
But thy wee modest flower shall immortally bloom;

And the poor cousin' beastie, exposed to the blast, Shall plead for the human while mercy will last.

Thou brother of sorrow, of doubts, and of fears—
Of mirth and of madness—of smiles and of tears;
With large drops of pity, which fall without art—
And great gusts of laughter which ring through the
heart.

Still laden with rapture the moments do flee,
And still "Souter Johnny" is roaring with glee;
And still on "Mare Maggie" bold Tarn is astride—
He'll never dismount from that terrible ride!

And well may old Scotland be proud of thy name,
And long may she think of thy hovel with shame:
Earth welcomes her great ones with coldness and
scorn—

What stripes and afflictions her giants have borne!

Dead heroes, in marble, from memory fade,
But warm hearts will weep where thine ashes are laid i
And earth's proudest priesthood like shadows flit by—
But thou'rt of the Priesthood that never can die!

« AnteriorContinuar »