There once the walls
Of the ruined cottage stood.
The periwinkle crawls
With flowers in its hair into the wood.

In flowerless hours
Never will the bank fail,
With everlasting flowers
On fragments of blue plates, to tell the tale.

There , on the darkened deathbed, dies the brain
That flared three several times in seventy years.
It cannot lift the silly hand again,
Nor speak, nor sing, it neither sees nor hears;
And muffled mourners put it in the ground
And then go home, and in the earth it lies
Too dark for vision and too deep for sound,
The million cells that made a good man wise.
Yet for a few short years an influence stirs,
A sense or wraith or essence of him dead,
Which makes insensate things its ministers
To those beloved, his spirit's daily bread,

Bring forth, bring forth your silver! it shall be
But as the dust that meets the passing eye;
You shall from all your idols break, be free!
And worship Him whose ear can hear your cry;
Thou who hast hid within thy learned pelf,
Thou who hast loved another wife than Me,
Bring forth thine idols, they are born of self;
And to thy Maker bow the willing knee;
Each secret thing must now be brought to light,
Make haste, the day breaks on your hidden spoil;
Go, buy what then will give your soul delight,

There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals
And beat them into shreds;
And mould them into petals,
To make the flowers' heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers
To tiny seeds like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold,
To keep, with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.

Where would I go from Thee? Thou lov'st me here
With love the heaven of heavens cannot contain;
Where can I go where Thou wilt not be near,
Who doth from hour to hour my life sustain?
I cannot leave Thee; Thou dost call me up,
When the first blush of morn is on the sky;
Thou mak'st my noon, at even bid'st me sup,
And when I sleep I know that Thou art nigh;
And what then can I want O Lord, but Thee?
Thy word shall be henceforth my daily bread,
From every other want it makes me free;
I will for it my heart wide open spread;

There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much, and sorrowed more,
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, "The mystery I've found,--
I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round,
But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain--it mattered not a pin--
The pigtail hung behind him.

There livd a lass in yonder dale,
And doun in yonder glen, O.
And Kathrine Jaffray was her name,
Well known by many men, O.

Out came the Laird of Lauderdale,
Out frae the South Countrie,
All for to court this pretty maid,
Her bridegroom for to be.

He has teld her father and mither baith,
And a' the rest o her kin,
And has teld the lass hersell,
And her consent has win.

Then came the Laird of Lochinton,
Out frae the English border,
All for to court this pretty maid,
Well mounted in good order.

There lived a carl in Kellyburnbraes,
Hey and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days,
And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime;
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days,
And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in prime. —

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang-glen,
Hey &c.
He met wit the d-v-l, says, how do ye fen?
And &c.

I've got a bad wife, Sir, that 's a' my complaint,
Hey &c.
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint,
And &c.

There liv'd a man in yonder glen,
And John Blunt was his name, O;
He maks gude maut, and he brews gude ale,
And he bears a wondrous fame, O. —

The wind blew in the hallan ae night,
Fu' snell out o'er the moor, O;
" Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie," he says,
" Rise up and bar the door, O." —

They made a paction tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure, O,
Whae'er sud speak the foremost word,
Should rise and bar the door, O. —

Three travellers that had tint their gate,
As thro' the hills they foor, O,

There ! little girl, don't cry!
They have broken your doll, I know;
And your tea-set blue,
And your play-house, too,
Are things of the long ago;
But childish troubles will soon pass by. —
There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know;
And the glad, wild ways
Of your school-girl days
Are things of the long ago;
But life and love will soon come by. —
There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!