First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married—spier nae mair—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.—

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Sweet and harmless as a child—
Wiser men than me 's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.—

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we gree;
I carena by how few may see,
Whistle o'er the lave o't.—

Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet;
I could write—but Meg maun see 't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.—

As men essay the Matterhorn—
That peering peak of stone and snow—
To view, some matchless Alpine morn,
The petty world stretch far below,
Though after all their toil and pain
They can but clamber down again;

So yearning souls essay the heights
Of spirit, setting dangers by,
And recking naught of low delights
The flesh affords; you ask them why,
They know not; some divine unrest
Bids them to climb and do their best.

Shun the abundant paragraphs
With which a novelist interviews shades
Of physical appearance in one man,
And regard the body of Alvin Spar
Curtained by more trenchant words.
“Alvin Spar in adolescence
Was neither slim nor rotund,
But slightly aware of future corpulence.
The face that Aristotle may have had
Was interfering, bit by bit,
With an outer face of pouting curves.
Alvin Spar in youth
Held half of the face that Aristotle
May have had, and the pungent directness
Of a stable-boy.
Alvin Spar in middle age
Had the face that Aristotle

Smiles do not always echo cheer,
Nor tear-drops measure grief,
For sorrow seeks a gilded mask,
And joy in tears, relief.

Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
My people.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies' maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Rounders,
Number writers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,—
My people.
Story-tellers all,—
My people.
Dancers—
God! What dancers!
Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers
Dancers and laughers.
Laughers?
Yes, laughers . . . laughers . . . laughers—

Grass of levity,
Span in brevity,
Flowers' felicity,
Fire of misery,
Winds' stability,

Here am I,
Little Jumping Joan;
When nobody's with me
I'm all alone.

Come friends and listen to my song,
You shall not find it dull.
It is the strange and merry lay
About the Bloxwich bull.

It was the wake of seventy-nine,
The village green was full;
They said no town afar or near
Could boast so fine a bull.

The dogs were brought, the stakes were driven,
And then there came a lull
While three tall men went o'er the green
To fetch the famous bull.

Now when they reached the stable door,
Long faces did they pull,
For lo! some knave had been afore
And taken away the bull.

Holy Spirit, Source of gladness,
Come with all thy radiance bright,
O'er our weariness and sadness
Breathe thy life and shed thy light!
Send us thine illumination,
Banish all our soul's annoy;
Rest upon this congregation,
Spirit of unfailing joy!

Let the peace which knows no measure
Now in quickening showers descend,
Bringing us the richest treasure
Man can wish, or God can send:
Hear our earnest supplication,
Every struggling heart release;
Rest upon this congregation,
Spirit of untroubled peace!

The loves of later life are many and bold
And press their cause with overweening hands;
They smile upon us now from sundry lands,
And some bring pleasures in a cup of gold.
Passion, superb and lustrous, crowns the old
Not seldom; wreathes their foreheads in bright bands
Of flowers, and, smiling, waiteth their commands;
Not all desires at Autumn's touch wax cold.

Yet one word we reserve with holy zeal
For youth alone and first love—even “sweetness:”
This only young joy wins in its completeness;
This only passion newly-crowned can feel;