"Well, well! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load
Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road?
"Is it some present rare
From friend in parting hour;
Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,
Thou tak'st with thee thy dower?"
She drooped her head, and with her hand
She gave a mournful wave;
"Oh, do not jest, dear sir—it is
Turf from my mother's grave!"
I spoke no word; we sat and wept
By the road-side together:
No purer dew on that bright day
Was dropt upon the heather.
—John Stuart Black.
1418
When we are sick, where can we turn for succor,
When we are wretched where can we complain?
And when the world looks cold and surly on us
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?
1419
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn.