(Country-Girl's Song)

I

My Love's gone a-fighting
Where war-trumpets call,
The wrongs o' men righting
Wi' carbine and ball,
And sabre for smiting,
And charger, and all!

II

Of whom does he think there
Where war-trumpets call?
To whom does he drink there,
Wi' carbine and ball
On battle's red brink there,

‘ WE LOVE THE SHRILL TRUMPET ’

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's rattle,
They call us to sport, and they call us to battle;
And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats of a stranger,
While our comrades in pastime are comrades in danger.

If there 's mirth in our house, 't is our neighbor that shares it—
If peril approach, 't is our neighbor that dares it;
And when we lead off to the pipe and the tabor,
The fair hand we press is the hand of a neighbor.

I know, within my mouth, for bashful fear
And dread of your disdain, my words will die;
I know I shall be stricken dumb, my dear,
With doubt of your unpitiful reply.
I know, whenas I shall before you lie
Prostrate and humble, craving help of you,
Misty aspects will cloud your sun-bright eye,
And scornful looks o'ershade your beauty's hue.
I know, when I shall plead my love so true,
So stainless, constant, loyal, and upright,
My truthful pleadings will not cause you rue
The ne'er-heard state of my distressid plight.

My recollectest thoughts are those
—Which I remember yet;
And bearing on, as you'd suppose,
—The things I don't forget.

But my resemblest thoughts are less
—Alike than they should be;
A state of things, as you'll confess,
—You very seldom see.

And yet the mostest thought I love
—Is what no one believes—
That I'm the sole survivor of
—The famous Forty Thieves!

The Fool of nature, stood with stupid eyes
And gaping Mouth, that testify'd Surprize,
Fix'd on her Face, nor cou'd remove his Sight,
New as he was to Love, and Novice in Delight:
Long mute he stood, and leaning on his Staff,
His Wonder witness'd with an Ideot laugh;
Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering Sense
First found his want of Words, and fear'd Offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his Clown-Accent and his Country-Tone.
Through the rude Chaos thus the running Light
Shot the first Ray that pierc'd the Native Night:

One with eyes the fairest
Cometh from his dwelling,
Some one loves thee, rarest,
Bright beyond my telling.
In thy grace thou shinest
Like some nymph divinest,
In her caverns dewy: —
All delights pursue thee,
Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing,
Shall thy head be wreathing.

They sin who tell us Love can die.
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell;
Earthly these passions of the Earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indestructible.
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at time opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,
Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain,
Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar
After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,
Heavily on the page: " A wonderful man was this Caesar!
You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow
Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful! "

Love is that madness which all lovers have;
But yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave:
'Tis an enchantment, where the reason's bound;
But paradise is in the enchanted ground;
A palace, void of envy, cares and strife,
Where gentle hours delude so much of life.
To take those charms away, and set me free,
Is but to send me into misery;
And prudence, of whose cure so much you boast,
Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost.

Alas! if I think of her, my throat becomes
dry, my hand falls back, my breasts harden and
hurt, and I shiver and I cry as I walk. If I
see her, my heart stops and my hands tremble,
my feet freeze, a redness of flame rises to my
cheeks, my temples beat in agony. If I touch
her, I grow mad, my arms stiffen and my knees
give under me. I fall before her, and I go to
my bed like a woman who is going to die. I feel
I am wounded by every word she speaks. Her love
is a torture, and those who pass by hear my
lamentations . . . Alas! how can I call her