“Do They Miss Me at Home?” Sing it lower—­
    And softer—­and sweet as the breeze
  That powdered our path with the snowy
    White bloom of the old locus’-trees! 
  Let the whippoorwills he’p you to sing it,
    And the echoes ’way over the hill,
  ’Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
    Of stars, and our voices is still.

  But, oh!  “They’s a chord in the music
    That’s missed when her voice is away!”
  Though I listen from midnight ’tel morning,
    And dawn, ’tel the dusk of the day;
  And I grope through the dark, lookin’ up’ards
    And on through the heavenly dome,
  With my longin’ soul singin’ and sobbin’
    The words, “Do They Miss Me at Home?”

THE LOST PATH.

  Alone they walked—­their fingers knit together,
    And swaying listlessly as might a swing
  Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather
    Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.

  Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket
    Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,
  And from the covert of the hazel-thicket
    The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.

  The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases
    Along the road-side in the shadows dim,
  Went following the blossoms of their faces
    As though their sweets must needs be shared with him.

  Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle
    Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells
  Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle
    Fell swooningly away in faint farewells.

  And though at last the gloom of night fell o’er them,
    And folded all the landscape from their eyes,
  They only know the dusky path before them
    Was leading safely on to Paradise.

THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW.

  “—­And any little tiny kickshaws.”—­Shakespeare.

  O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me,
  ’Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree,
  Wi’ denty flavorin’s o’ spice an’ musky rosemarie,
  The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.

  ‘Tis luscious wi’ the stalen tang o’ fruits frae ower the sea,
  An’ e’en its fragrance gars we laugh wi’ langin’ lip an’ ee,
  Till a’ its frazen sheen o’ white maun melten hinnie be—­
  Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.

  O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an’ I smack my lips wi’ glee,
  Aye mickle do I luve the taste o’ sic a luxourie,
  But maist I luve the luvein’ han’s that could the giftie gie
  O’ the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.

HIS MOTHER.

  DEAD! my wayward boy—­my own—­
  Not the Law’s! but mine—­the good
  God’s free gift to me alone,
  Sanctified by motherhood.