"But you have two, and I have none;
One burden give to me; I'll take that bundle from thy back
That heavier seems to be.
"No, no!" she said; "this, if you will,
That holds—no hand but mine May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean
'Cross the Atlantic brine!"
"Well, well! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load, Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road?
"Belike it is 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 dropped upon the heather.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train at the open gate.
A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in: I gather them in.
"I gather them in! for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around,
In every nook of this burial ground;
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one:
But come they strangers or come they kin—
I gather them in, I gather them in.