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To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

THEY COME, THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.-1798-1835.

IN 1817 a very interesting and really valuable collection of ballads was published by Mr. Motherwell, entitled "Ancient and Modern Minstrelsy," and the author subsequently edited in succession the 'Paisley Magazine,' the 'Paisley Advertiser,' and the Glasgow Courier.' In 1833 he published his own poems, which have a large circulation both in this country and in America, where many of them are great favourites.]

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THEY come! the merry summer months of beauty, song,

and flowers;

They come the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness

to bowers.

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care

aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand;
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and

bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome

thee:

And mark how with thine own thin locks-they now are silvery gray

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody:
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like
red gold;

And hark with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they

hold.

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this

earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler

mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,-from yonder wood it

came !

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad

name;

Yes, it is he the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,-his notes are void of art; But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the

heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer

tree!

To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy

Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

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I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think

That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to

drink ;—

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, unclouded sky,

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and

cold,

I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old!

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part ;

Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran off to speel the braes,The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about-
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang !

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees-

And we, with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

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