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 snaw, 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 gane, And there's sorrow in its stead: Oh! the world is fu' o' pain, P HEROES! All hail to the chiefs of thought, To all the heads that teach In truth's enchanted ring; To the soldiers of the right— 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, '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, To the soldiers of the right— Great conquerors, but for you! 172 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. (Written for 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 old hoary mountain, the streamlet, and tree, Earth's proudest shall perish and sink to the tomb, And the poor courin' 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 artAnd great gusts of laughter which ring through the heart. Still laden with rapture the moments do flee, 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, |