To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,- 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.] 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; The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand; 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, 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! 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, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Still fling their shadows ower my path, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, O, mind ye how we hung our heads, (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- As ane by ane the thochts rush back O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! When hinnied hopes around our hearts O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, And in the gloamin o' the wood The throssil whusslit in the wood, 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 |