OUR native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu !
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Cheviot mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds
And streams renowned in song!
Farewell, ye braes and blossomed meads
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell, the blithesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, the haunted hoary howes,
O'erhung with birk and sĺoe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell-

The martyr's grave and lover's bower,
We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love! our fathers' home!
Land of the brave and free!

The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee.

We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the western main;
We leave thee, to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again.

Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu !
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!

-Thomas Pringle.

THE HAPPIER LAND.

THERE sat one day in quiet,
By an ale-house on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups
Around the rustic board;

There sat they all, so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

But when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
"Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare,

With all the stout and hardy men,

And the nut-brown maidens there!"

“Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,

And dashed his beard with wine,

"I had rather live in Lapland,

Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land!

There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!"

TO THE CUCKOO.

"Hold your tongues, both Swabian and Saxon," A bold Bohemian cries;

"If there's a heaven upon this earth,

In Bohemia it lies.

"There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn."

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, "Ye may no more contend,-
There lies the happiest land!"

-Longfellow

TO THE CUCKOO.

A BLITHE new-comer I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,

Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring,

Even yet thou art to me.

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice-a mystery!

The same when in my schoolboy days

I listened to that cry,

Which made me look a thousand ways,

In bush, and tree, and sky.

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A PSALM OF LIFE.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

TELL me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream,
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.

-Longfellow.

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