High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
Flying, pursuing,
Toying, and wooing—
Nature is now as she ever has been.
Then when the toils of the day are all over,
Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring—
Youth, with its mirthfulness—age, with its cheerfulness,
Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
"Bright may our spirits be—
Happy and ever free.
Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."
GOOD MORROW.[3]
Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
Hark! hark!
Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
Or the early milkmaid carolling?
Hark! hark!
Or is it the lark,
As he bids the sun good-morrow?—
Good-morrow;
Though every day brings sorrow.
The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
Hark! hark!
Is it the musical chime on the hill,
That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
Hark! hark!
Oh, sweeter than lark,
Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
Of sorrow;
But pleasure will come to-morrow.
OH, WAE'S MY LIFE.
Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
The last fond hope I leant upon,
Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.
For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
That darkens on your brow, Willie?
Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
A fading flower despised, Willie?