And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, --American. LONGFELLOW, 1807 THERE'S AYE SOMETHING BETTER IN the battle o' life when new troubles oppress, And fortune appears to disdain us; When the weel-hoarded shillings are fast growin' less, That only hard toil can regain us, We maunna sit doun at the brink o' despair, But gaze through the cloud that hangs o'er us, And maybe, wha kens, we shall see written there, "There's aye something better before us." Although o' ae e'enin' o' happiness we And though o' the fruits o' ae puir labour-fee We maunna indulge in the yaumerer's sin, Lest angel Content should abhor us, But croon, wi' a glint at the regions aboon, "There's aye something better before us." When castles we build on the houp o' guid health, Aft lameness or sickness deceive us; And aften o' wark, aye the chief source o' wealth, The word o' a maister bereave us; Sair, sair is the grief sic disasters may bring, E'en though our kind neebours deplore us; But sorrow leans lightly on hearts that can sing, "There's aye something better before us." Ye great, wha puir Labour can grind at your will, Uncheck'd by a conscience within ye, I warn ye, defiant we look on ye still, And free as the lark soar aboon ye. In vain the north blast o' your anger may blaw, DAVID WINGATE, 1828— THE HAMLET. WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOREST. THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled When morning's twilight-tinctured beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew: Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, For them the moon with cloudless ray The meadows incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare That o'er a glimmering hearth they share ; Their little sons, who spread the bloom Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest Their humble porch with honied flowers THOMAS WHARTON, 1728-1790. WHOM CALL WE GAY? WHOM call we gay? That honour has been long That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, But save me from the gaiety of those Whose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed; And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes TRUE HAPPINESS. TRUE happiness has no localities, |