Where from one point the branching ways divide,
The village-shop displays its tinsel pride.
Bright beams the window with the gaudy show,
Drest in each colour of the splendid bow:
Small rolls of tape with dex'trous skill arrang'd,
Each coil diminish'd, and each colour chang'd,
Red, blue, and crimson, are alternate seen,
'Till ends the pyramid in sprightly green.

Gay with japan, snuff boxes stand array'd,
With golden mottos for each love-sick maid,
Whose gaudy glare still captivate the eye,
With — you I love, nor fear for you to die. —

Dear Mam, to your friendship I beg to commend,
O'Dwyer my kins-man, and Going my friend;
Two wights true and trusty as ever went forth,
To grace the gay banquet, or plead in a court.

One fam'd for the joke and the fly repartee,
Not Yorick himself more facetious than he;
In fancy and fun so complete is his knack,
That he'd tip a good pun if a cork did but smack;
A conserve of humour all palates to hit,
Yet a friend never blush'd by the flash of his wit.

The other deep read in mankind's wily ways,

I call thee! o'er the distance sounds my voice.
Art thou asleep? then hearken through a dream:
Or art thou waking? then let music seem
To reach and stir thee; in its power rejoice.
Where'er thou art I send for thee: — a gleam
Of sudden sunshine is upon the waves
Of my strong singing, and it crowns the graves
Of buried hopes with one triumphant beam.

The past has vanished: with me face the years
That shall be to thee one triumphant crown;
Wipe the last lingering trace of lonely tears;
The wreath that I have won thee I lay down.

Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who's that calling on the moorland?
Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who's that running on the moorland?
Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there — and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

With my whole heart I'll raise my song,
Thy wonders I'll proclaim;
Thou Sov'reign Judge of right and wrong
Wilt put my foes to shame.

I'll sing thy majesty and grace;
My God prepares his throne,
To judge the world in righteousness,
And make his vengeance known.

Then shall the Lord a refuge prove,
For all the poor oppress'd;
To save the people of his love,
And give the weary rest.

The men that know thy name will trust,
In thine abundant grace;
For thou wilt ne'er forsake the just,
Who humbly seek thy face.

And now I leave these thoughts — e'en Nature too
I leave, for thou art Nature, and her whole
Delight in thine immeasurable soul
Blossoms; thou art to me the pearly dew
Of morn, and whiter than the rose in hue, —
Thou hast the notes of birds upon thy tongue:
Through thee the immortal cadences have rung:
Thou art the darkling eve; the midday blue.

I leave all things for thee — the summer air;
For thou art sweeter, and thy mouth more fair.
I quit the sacred rapture of the night;
Thine eyes: thou keepest all created things

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
And oh! but he wounded her sore.
" Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at? "
No word would he say,

The slyding tyme so slilie slips away,
It reaves from us remembrance of our state;
And, quhill we do the cair of tyme delay,
We tyne the tyde, and so lament to lait.
Then, to eschew such dangerous debait,
Prepone sor patrene manlie M AITLAND knycht.
Leirne be HIS lyf to leive in sembil raite,
With luif to God, Religion, Law, and Rycht.
For as HE was of vertu lucent lycht;
Of ancient bluid, of nobil spreit and name;
Belov'd of God, and everie gracious wycht;
So died HE auld, deserving worthie fame.
A rair exempil set for us to sie

With joy we meditate the grace
Of our High Priest above,
His heart is made of tenderness,
His bowels melt with love.

Touch'd with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame,
He knows how sore our woes have been,
For he has felt the same.

He, in the days of feeble flesh,
Pour'd out his cries and tears,
And in his measure feels afresh,
Each member's griefs and fears.

He'll never quench the smoking flax,
But raise it to a flame;
The bruised reed he never breaks,
Nor scorns the meanest name.