Now we maun totter down, John; And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBERT BURNS. LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE, WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA. IF thon wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale! If thou, my love, wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course nor Delhi's kingly gates Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But never were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! REGINALD HEBER. TO MY WIFE. OH, hadst thou never shared my fate, But thou hast suffer'd for my sake, My fond affection thou hast seen, To think more happy thou hadst been And has that thought been shared by thee. Than labor'd words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight How unlike some who have profess'd But ah! from them to thee I turn,- From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY THE WINSOME WEE THING. SHE is a winsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; She is a winsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. ROBERT BURNS. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. To be a moment's ornament; I saw her, upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, And now I see with eye serene TO MARY. "THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed"— If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge, I bring: With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heartThose virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience' sake as well as love's. And why? They show me every hour Honor's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sen tence, And teach me all things-but repentance SAMUEL Bishop. THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds fling by your wheel! For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman, Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; it's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the bank They've fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa'? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't And will I hear him speak? Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I hear him speak? For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house JEAN ADAM. THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and day-time, in dreams I behold thee; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten; Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. O Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom! Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;- Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming! You have been glad when you knew I was gladden'd; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sadden'd? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love; You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my loom like the sun of to morrow; Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile ou your cheek, love. Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful, Spread to this woman her map of life: Hour after hour she look'd in her soul, ¦ full Of deep dismay and turbulent strife. Face in hands, she knelt on the carpet; The cloud was loosen'd, the storm-rain fell. We needn't ask who, for don't we know It has all been settled by Fate? Not woman, but man. Give woman her flowers, Her dresses, her jewels, or what she demands: The work of the world must be done by man, Or why has he brawny hands? As I feel my way in the dark and cold, I think of the chambers warm and bright The nests where these delicate birds of ours Are folding their wings to-night! Through the luminous windows, above and below, I catch a glimpse of the life they lead: Some sew, some sing, others dress for the ball, While others (fair students) read. There's the little lady who bears my name She sits at my table now, pouring her tea; Does she think of me as I hurry home, She helps herself to the sugar and cream In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant way; Her hands are white as the virgin rose That she wore on her wedding-day. My stubbed fingers are stain'd with inkThe badge of the ledger, the mark of trade; Oh life has so much to wither and warp it, But the money I give her is clean enough, One poor heart's day what poet could tell? WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. WITHOUT AND WITHIN. I. THE night is dark, and the winter winds Go stabbing about with their icy spears; The sharp hail rattles against the panes, And melts on my cheeks like tears. 'Tis a terrible night to be out of doors, But some of us must be, early and late; In spite of the way it is made. I wear out my life in the counting-room, Over day-book and cash-book, Bought and Sold; My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, How does she keep the roses of youth Still fresh in her cheeks? My roses are It lies in a nutshell: why do I ask? She gives me a kiss when we part for the day, Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird; She reads it at sight, and the language too, Though I know never a word. She sews-a little; makes collars. and sleeves; I think of woman, and think of man, The tie that binds, and the wrongs that part, And long to utter in burning words What I feel to-night in my heart. No weak complaint of the man I love, No praise of myself or my sisterhood; Or embroiders me slippers (always too But-something that women understand, small); Nets silken purses (for me to fill)— Often does nothing at all But dream in her chamber, holding a flower, Or reading my letters (she'd better read me)! Even now, while I am freezing with cold, She is cozily sipping her tea. If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud At the sight of a roaring fire once more; She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, For the usual kiss at the door. I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, To warm up my blood and soothe my mind; Then a little music, for even I Like music when I have dined. I'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair, Or, drawing the little one on my knee, II. Will he never come? I have watch'd for him Till the misty panes are roughen'd with sleet; I can see no more: shall I never hear The welcome sound of his feet? I think of him in the lonesome night, Tramping along with a weary tread, And wish he were here by the cheery fire, Or I were there in his stead. I sit by the grate, and hark for his step, And stare in the fire with a troubled mind; By men never understood. Their natures jar in a thousand things; Little matter, alas! who is right or wrong. She goes to the wall. "She is weak!" they say; It is that that makes them strong But grant us weak (as in truth we are In our love for them), they should make us strong; But do they? Will they? "WOMAN IS WEAK!" Is the burden still of their song. Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, And he labors early and late for me; But I--I could do the same. My hands are willing, my brain is clear, The world is wide, and the workers few; But the work of the world belongs to man; There is nothing for woman to do. Yes, she has the holy duties of home, In short, a life without care. So our masters say. But what do they know Of our lives and feelings when they are away? Our household duties, our petty tasks, That their homes are pleasant; they seek their ease: One takes a wife to flatter his pride; The glow of the coals is bright in my They say they love us; perhaps they do, face, But my shadow is dark behind. In a masculine way, as they love their wine; |