Ye were wearyin' yersel'
Till her bit,
Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell.
Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!
Ken ye no the way she rins?
Hoo her hair,
Ower-muckle fer the pins,
Blaws aboot her everywhere?
Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din?
Puir blin' thing!
Ye'll no see her happy rin;
"Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.
Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea,
Doon yer sands,
Jinnie's callin' doon tae me!
Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!
ROBERT JERMAIN COLE. Columbia Literary Monthly.
~Lent.~
Priscilla is a maid devout
In this repentant season,
And to the world and all its ways
Has vowed a pious treason.
Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!—
Though long I've tried to win her
I fear that I'm not in it with
Some other lucky sinner.
For when I begged she'd trust her heart
To me, and o'er her bent,
She blushed and softly murmured,
"How can I when it's Lent."
T. L. CLARKE. Yale Record.