The earth is flecked wi’ flowers, mony-tinted, fresh, an’ gay,
  The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
  But these sights an’ these soun’s will as naething be to me,
  When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

  I’ve his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King
  To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring: 
  Wi’ een an’ wi’ hearts runnin’ owre, we shall see
  The King in his beauty in our ain countree.

  My sins hae been mony, an’ my sorrows hae been sair,
  But there they’ll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
  His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e’e,
  When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.

  Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
  I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour’s breast;
  For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,
  And carries them himse’ to his ain countree.

  He’s faithfu’ that hath promised, he’ll surely come again,
  He’ll keep his tryst wi’ me, at what hour I dinna ken;
  But he bids me still to wait, an’ ready aye to be,
  To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

  So I’m watching aye, an’ singin’ o’ my hame as I wait,
  For the soun’ing o’ his footfa’ this side the shining gate;
  God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me,
  That we a’ may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

MARY LEE DEMAREST.

* * * * *

COMING.

    “At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the
    morning.”—­Mark xiii. 35.

  “It may be in the evening,
      When the work of the day is done,
  And you have time to sit in the twilight
      And watch the sinking sun,
  While the long bright day dies slowly
      Over the sea,
  And the hour grows quiet and holy
      With thoughts of me;
  While you hear the village children
      Passing along the street,
  Among those thronging footsteps
      May come the sound of my feet. 
  Therefore I tell you:  Watch. 
      By the light of the evening star,
  When the room is growing dusky
      As the clouds afar;
  Let the door be on the latch
    In your home,
  For it may be through the gloaming
    I will come.

  “It may be when the midnight
    Is heavy upon the land,
  And the black waves lying dumbly
    Along the sand;
  When the moonless night draws close,
  And the lights are out in the house;
  When the fires burn low and red,
  And the watch is ticking loudly
      Beside the bed: 
  Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch,
  Still your heart must wake and watch
      In the dark room,
  For it may be that at midnight
      I will come.