Then haply on the breeze's wing,
That to me steals across the wave,
Some angel's voice may answer bring
That list'ning heaven consents to save.
And oh, the further boon I crave
Perchance may also granted be,
That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave
The wanderer's perils on the sea!
THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.
There 's music in a mother's voice,
More sweet than breezes sighing;
There 's kindness in a mother's glance,
Too pure for ever dying.
There 's love within a mother's breast,
So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,
And for her own a tender care,
That 's ever, ever growing.
And when a mother kneels to heaven,
And for her child is praying,
Oh, who shall half the fervour tell
That burns in all she 's saying!
A mother, when she, like a star,
Sets into heaven before us,
From that bright home of love, all pure,
Still minds and watches o'er us.
THE BRIG OF ALLAN.
Come, memory, paint, though far away,
The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,
The upland wood, the hill-top gray,
Whereon the sky seems fallin';
Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row
Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,
Where Airthrie's healing waters flow
By bonny Brig of Allan.