Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulful
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part,

And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava,

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot!

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat,

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 upon the bauk,

Been fed this month and mair:

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare,

And mak' the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw!

It's a' for love of my gudeman,

For he's been long awa.

O, gi'e me down my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue!

'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,
His breath's like caller air!

His very foot has music in 't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,—
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava,

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

William Julius Mickle.

303

GRAY

AULD

ROBIN

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,

But saving a croun he had naething else beside:

To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea,

And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa a week but only twa,

When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea

And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
Said: Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak,

But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea,

Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he-
Till he said: 'I'm come hame to marry thee.'

O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee,
And why was I born to say Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife ay to be,
For auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me.

Lady Anne Lindsay.

304

TO SPRING

O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,

Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee!

O, deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
William Blake.

305

HOW SWEET I ROAMED

How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the Prince of Love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He showed me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing;

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

306

MY SILKS AND

William Blake.

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languished air,

By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have!

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold:
O, why to him was 't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?