For soon he cam to understand

What ithers to their sorrow fand *.
There does na dwell in a' the land

Sic jillet as my ain dear.

Already he'd some wee bit wifies,

Frae wham he'd learnt what married life is Whare jealousy, fou' bogle, rife is

Sae he gi'ed owre my ain dear.

He'd tribble sair to keep his leddies
Frae flirtin' wi' the gay young shadies;

She wad ha'e dri'en him crazed frae Hades-
He maun gi'e owre my ain dear.

Sae Death is gaen this mony a day,
An' sooth there's mair than ane do say

That I ha'e little sense to stay:

What says to that my ain dear?

But, gin I've no the wit to flee,
Sall I be ane o' thretty-three?

Maun thretty-twa gae shares wi' me?
What says to that my ain dear?

* Found.

+ Such a jilt.

Goblin.

She has na said a word at a';
Nae soun frae out her lips did fa';
Yet frae her mou' I've ta'en awa
The answer o' my ain dear.

Ah weel! my flight's na yet begun; Till brent, the fire I winna shun; What's na yet lost may yet be wonThe heart's-lo'e o' my ain dear.

1872.

AFTER PARTING.

AND so the last, last kiss is taken,
And so the last, last word is said;
A kiss for Love that shall not waken,
A prayer for Love that's newly dead.
No sweet sad dream of yesterday

Rise up before his sleep-bound eye;
Be wraiths of memory far away

From where our buried Love doth lie.

Ah! does he sleep? Does not one ember
Of his strong life-fires flicker yet?
Have we, who promised to remember,
Promised more surely to forget?

Can aught that shall be quite eclipse

That which has been? O sweet, can I

Hearken that name upon men's lips

With never a care and never a sigh?

Will my sad shadow holely vanish
In your new life's serenest day?

One memory can you holely banish?
One rising vision holely lay?

When long years fail, and when you hold

Sweet children's children on your knee,
And silver are your locks of gold,
Will you not yet remember me?

If, wandering through some happy haven Where rest from life's rude seas the dead, You mark perchance the letters graven

That point where I have laid my head— Yes, then of days long, long past by

One little word the tale shall tell

One prayer, soft struggling with a sigh, "Heaven rest his soul-he loved me well."

1872.

ON THE DEATH OF AN AERONAUT BY THE FALL OF HIS BALLOON.

LIKE some keen hawk, with forces yet unspent,
That stoops awhile to climb the steeper skies,
He for a moment fell, the next to rise
And make his last and loftiest ascent.

1873.