C OMIN ' through the craigs o' Kyle,
— Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,
— Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

— — — Owre the muir amang the heather,
Owre the muir amang the heather;
— — — There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Says I, My dear, where is thy hame, —
— In muir or dale, pray tell me whether?
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks
— That feed amang the bloomin' heather.

We laid us down upon a bank,
— Sae warm and sunny was the weather:

Comfort thee, oh thou mourner, yet awhile!
Again shall Elia's smile
Refresh thy heart, when heart can ache no more.
What is it we deplore?
He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years,
Far worthier things than tears:
The love of friends without a single foe,
Unequalled lot below!
His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine;
Shalt thou for those repine?
He may have left the lowly walks of men;
Left them he has—what then?
Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise?

Comes fall, and with a sound of leaves,
The wind's incorrigible stroke
Blows out the insufficient sleeves
Of my forlorn and ancient cloak.

Expect no tenement, my friend,
Beneath this scant and threadbare vest;
Alone, to my indifferent end
I go my way, and God knows best.

Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door —
" I made bold to call — 'tis a twelvemonth and more —
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir —
But Job would be paid, sir, had Job been a mercer. "
My friend, have but patience — " Ay, these are your ways. "
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days —
But, sir — prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider — consider? vexation!

Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of harvest-home:
All is safely gathered in, Ere the winter storms begin;
God, Our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come, Raise the song of harvest-home.

All the world is God's own field, Fruit unto his praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown:
First the blade, and then the ear, Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we Wholesome grain and pure may be.

Come, ye lads, who wish to shine
Bright in future story,
Haste to arms, and form the line
That leads to martial glory.
Beat the drum, the trumpet sound,
Manly and united,
Danger face, maintain your ground,
And see your country righted.

Columbia, when her eagle 's roused,
And her flag is rearing
Will always find her sons disposed
To drub the foe that's daring.
Beat the drum, etc.

Hearts of oak, protect the coast,
Pour your naval thunder,
While on shore a mighty host

The world is wasted on you. Show us one clear time
beyond childhood (or the bottle) you spent your whole
self — hoarding no blood-bank back-up, some future aim
to fuel — or let yourself look foolish in reckless style
on barstool, backstreet or dancefloor, without a dim
image of your hamming hobbling you the whole while.
Voyeur to your own couplings, you never did come
with them, did you, even when you did? You said Hell
is details, when Hell was just the cave, the concave-
mirrored skull you dwelt inside, your left hand

Come, ye heavy states of night,
Do my father's spirit right.
Soundings baleful let me borrow,
Burdening my song with sorrow.
Come, sorrow, come, her eyes that sings
By thee are turned into springs.

Come, you virgins of the night,
That in dirges sad delight,
Choir my anthems. I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow.
Come, sorrow, come, her eyes that sings
By thee are turned into springs.

Come walk with me along this willowed lane,
— Where, like lost coinage from some miser's store,
— The golden dandelions more and more
Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again!
For this is May! who with a daisy chain
— Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o'er
— Long winter's trance. No longer rise and roar
His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain,
Along the furrow, sings behind his team;
— Loud pipes the redbreast — troubadour of spring,
— And vocal all the morning copses ring;
More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam;

Come, walk with me;
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now;
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow.
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild;
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago,
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled.

Come, walk with me--come, walk with me;
We were not once so few;
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew: