My Own Cáilin Donn"

Oh, mark above the bearded corn

And the green wheat and bending rye,
Tuned to the earth and calling dawn,

The stars vibrating in the sky!

And know, divided soul of me,

Here in the meadow, sweet in speech,
This perfect night could never be

Were we not mated each to each.

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THE blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree! More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love-my own Cáilin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!
Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells;
Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me-my own Cáilin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;

There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's

won,

Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn!
George Sigerson [1839-

SONG

From "Festus"

OH! the wee green neuk! the sly green neuk,
The wee sly neuk for me!

Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown,
And the wind is fresh and free.

Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o' reeds
Kerve whissles as I lay;

And a douce low voice is murmurin' by
Through the lee-lang simmer day.

And whare a' things luik as though they lo'ed
To languish in the sun;

And that, if they feed the fire they dree,

They wadna ae pang were gone.
Whare the lift aboon is still as death,

And bright as life can be;

While the douce low voice says, Na, na, na!

But ye mauna luik sae at me.

Whare the lang rank bent is saft and cule,
And freshenin' till the feet;

And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high,
Whare my love and I mak' seat:
And I tease her till she rins, and then

I catch her roun' the tree;

While the poppies shak' their heids and blush:

Let 'em blush till they drap, for me!

Philip James Bailey [1816-1902]

"BY YON BURN SIDE"

WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,

And there we may be seen,

Yet we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

A Pastoral

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side,

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Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye,

Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy,

While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;
There fancy smooths her theme,

By the sweetly murmuring stream,

And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene,

I'll through the fields alane,

There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn

side.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

A PASTORAL

FLOWER of the medlar,
Crimson of the quince,

I saw her at the blossom-time,
And loved her ever since!

She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,

Redness of the red,

She went to cut the blush-rose buds

To tie at the altar-head;

And some she laid in her bosom,
And some around her brows,
And, as she passed, the lily-heads
All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy,

Yellow of the corn,

The men were at the garnering,
A-shouting in the morn;

I chased her to a pippin-tree,—
The waking birds all whist,-
And oh! it was the sweetest kiss
That I have ever kissed.

Marjorie, mint, and violets
A-drying round us set,

'Twas all done in the faience-room

A-spicing marmalet;

On one tile was a satyr,

On one a nymph at bay,

Methinks the birds will scarce be home

To wake our wedding-day!

Théophile Marzials [1850

"WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME"

WHEN Death to either shall come,—

I pray it be first to me,

Be happy as ever at home,
If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own;

And sing to thy child on thy knee,

Or read to thyself alone

The songs that I made for thee.

Robert Bridges [1844

THE RECONCILIATION

From "The Princess"

As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,

We fell out, my wife and I,
O, we fell out, I know not why,

And kissed again with tears.

Song

And blessings on the falling out

That all the more endears,

When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,

O, there above the little grave,

We kissed again with tears.

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Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SONG

WAIT but a little while-
The bird will bring

A heart in tune for melodies

Unto the spring,

Till he who's in the cedar there

Is moved to trill a song so rare,
And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while

The bud will break;

The inner rose will open and glow

For summer's sake;

Fond bees will lodge within her breast

Till she herself is plucked and pressed
Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while

The maid will grow

Gracious with lips and hands to thee,

With breast of snow.

To-day Love's mute, but time hath sown

A soul in her to match thine own,

Though yet ungrown.

Norman Gale [1862