To Mary

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

1191

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY

"THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed,
So, fourteen years ago, I said—
Behold another ring!-"For what?
To wed thee o'er again-why not?"

With that first ring I married Youth,
Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.
If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure,
With ardor as intense and pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine),
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token, and a pledge, I bring;
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues, which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

For why? They show me every hour,
Honor's high thought, Affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence,
And teach me all things—but Repentance.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]

THE GOLDEN WEDDING

O LOVE, whose patient pilgrim feet
Life's longest path have trod;
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet
The dearer love of God;

The sacred myrtle wreathes again
Thine altar, as of old;

And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,

Nor less the blinding shower;

The bud of fifty years agone

Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door;
O dream of youth, return;

And let the light that gleamed of yore

Beside this altar burn.

The past is plain; 'twas love designed
E'en sorrow's iron chain;

And mercy's shining, thread has twined
With the dark warp of pain.

So be it still. O Thou who hast
That younger bridal blest,

Till the May-morn of love has passed
To evening's golden west;
Come to this later Cana, Lord,

And, at thy touch divine,
The water of that earlier board
To-night shall turn to wine.

David Gray [1837-1888]

Moggy and Me

1193

MOGGY AND ME

OH wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy?
Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,

An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae;
An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
When down the glen I come weary an' wae.

Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggin,
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa;
We've twa webs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',

As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;
We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,

A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand; An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.

'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses, Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care; But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,

Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share. I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father, Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae; We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',

To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.

Our duke may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon,
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e,

His lady aye braw sittin' prim in her ha';
But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?

A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',
You'll learn it by lookin' at Moggy an' me.

James Hogg [1770-1835]

“O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!”

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old;

But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold.

'Tis long, long since our new love

Made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest;

Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest.
A many cares are pressing

On this dear head;

But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!

"Twill shelter thee.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree:

And so, till boughs are leafless,

And songbirds flown,

We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,

Together down.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS

WHEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends),

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,

And slipped in three blessings,-wife, children, and friends.

Wife, Children, and Friends

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,

1195

For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with--wife, children, and friends.

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,

The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested, When drawn on the firm of-wife, children, and friends.

Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers,
The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers

How blessed was his home with-wife, children, and friends.

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory
For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends.

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover,
Though for him all Arabia's fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sat with-wife, children, and friends.

The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smile of-wife, children, and friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children, and friends.

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;

Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor
The glass which I fill to-wife, children, and friends.

William Robert Spencer [1769-1834]