The Powers aboon will tent thee;
  Misfortune sha’ na steer[4] thee;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely
  That ill they ’ll ne’er let near thee.

Return again, fair Leslie,
  Return to Caledonie! 
That we may brag we hae a lass
  There’s nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS.

  [4] Harm.

THE RUSTIC LAD’S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.

O, wad that my time were owre but,
  Wi’ this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,
  I’ the bonnie birken shaw! 
For this is no my ain life,
  And I peak and pine away
Wi’ the thochts o’ hame and the young flowers,
  In the glad green month of May.

I used to wauk in the morning
  Wi’ the loud sang o’ the lark,
And the whistling o’ the ploughman lads,
  As they gaed to their wark;
I used to wear the bit young lambs
  Frae the tod and the roaring stream;
But the warld is changed, and a’ thing now
  To me seems like a dream.

There are busy crowds around me,
  On ilka lang dull street;
Yet, though sae mony surround me,
  I ken na are I meet: 
And I think o’ kind kent faces,
  And o’ blithe an’ cheery days,
When I wandered out wi’ our ain folk,
  Out owre the simmer braes.

Waes me, for my heart is breaking! 
  I think o’ my brither sma’,
And on my sister greeting,
  When I cam frae hame awa. 
And O, how my mither sobbit,
  As she shook me by the hand,
When I left the door o’ our auld house,
  To come to this stranger land.

There’s nae hame like our ain hame—­
  O, I wush that I were there! 
There’s nae hame like our ain hame
  To be met wi’ onywhere;
And O that I were back again,
  To our farm and fields sae green;
And heard the tongues o’ my ain folk,
  And were what I hae been!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours
  That must be counted ere I see thy face? 
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
  Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
  Weary with longing?—­shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
  Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
  Of casting from me God’s great gift of time? 
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
  Leave and forget life’s purposes sublime?

O, how or by what means may I contrive
  To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? 
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
  Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I’ll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
  Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
  While thou, beloved one! art far from me.