When I gae out at e’en,
  Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
  I used to meet thee there: 
Then I’ll sit down and cry,
  And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa’s i’ my lap,
  I’ll ca’t a word frae thee.

I’ll hie me to the bower
  That thou wi’ roses tied,
And where wi’ mony a blushing bud
  I strove myself to hide. 
I’ll doat on ilka spot
  Where I ha’e been wi’ thee;
And ca’ to mind some kindly word
  By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE.

LOVE’S MEMORY.

     FROM “ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,” ACT I. SC.  I.

I am undone:  there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away.  It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me: 
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: 
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love.  ’Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart’s table,—­heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor: 
But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

ABSENCE.

When I think on the happy days
  I spent wi’ you, my dearie;
And now what lands between us lie,
  How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
  As ye were wae and weary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by
  When I was wi’ my dearie.

ANONYMOUS.

THINKIN’ LONG.

Oh thinkin’ long’s the weary work! 
It breaks my heart from dawn
Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars
Come out at dayli’gone. 
An’ thinkin’ long’s the weary work,
When I must spin and spin,
To drive the fearsome fancies out,
An’ hold the hopeful in!

Ah, sure my lad is far away! 
My lad who left our glen
When from the soul of Ireland came
A call for fightin’ men;
I miss his gray eyes glancin’ bright,
I miss his liltin’ song,
And that is why, the lonesome day,
I’m always thinkin’ long.

May God’s kind angels guard him
When the fray is fierce and grim,
And blunt the point of every sword
That turns its hate on him. 
Where round the torn yet dear green flag
The brave and lovin’ throng—­
But the lasses of Glenwherry smile
At me for thinkin’ long.

ANNA MAC MANUS (Ethna Carbery).

“TEARS, IDLE TEARS.”

     FROM “THE PRINCESS.”

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more. 
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge,—­
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.