The Cane-Bottomed Chair

draw in my stool on my cozy hearthstane,
t loups sae light I scarce ken 't for my ain;
own on the wind, it is clean out o' sight,
ibles they seem but as dreams o' the night.
ut kend voices, kend faces I see,

rk saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee;
chings o' flattery, nae boastings o' pride,
rt speaks to heart at ane's ain fireside.
ain fireside, my ain fireside,

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there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside.

Elizabeth Hamilton [1758-1816]

THE INGLE-SIDE

It's rare to see the morning bleeze

Like a bonfire frae the sea, It's fair to see the burnie kiss The lip o' the flowery lea; An' fine it is on green hillside, Where hums the bonnie bee,

But rarer, fairer, finer far

Is the ingle-side for me.

Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare,
The birds may fill the tree;
An' haughs hae a' the scented ware
The simmer-growth can gie:
But the canty hearth where cronies meet,

An' the darling o' our e'e,

That makes to us a warl' complete:

Oh, the ingle-side for me!

Hew Ainslee [1792-1878]

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR

tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, nd a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, way from the world and its toils and its cares, ve a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,

But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks

With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,

Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire,
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
"Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times:
As we sit in a fog made of rick Latakie,

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms!

Those Evening Bells'

nd I longed, and I wished in despair; yself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

a moment she sat in this place,

rf on her neck, and a smile on her face! her face, and a rose in her hair,

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at there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

have valued my chair ever since,

hrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; ny, my patroness sweet I declare,

of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.

candles burn low, and the company's gone, ence of night as I sit here alonealone, but we yet are a pair

y

I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

s from the past, and revisits my room;
as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
g and tender, so fresh and so fair,
der she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

"THOSE EVENING BELLS "

THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone,-
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board;

:

The Old Clock on the Stairs

But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time shall disappear,

Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]