The Young Bride o' Mavis-Bank Ha'.
H! whaur hae ye been to, my ain bonnie bairn,
Oh! whaur hae ye been to, my hinnie?"
"Doun by the green haugh, a new lesson to learn,
An' pu'd ye these wild flowers, my minnie—
An' pu'd ye these wild flowers, my minnie."
"What gars ye look dowie, what gars ye no speak;
Oh! what dool does my dear lassie dree?
Ye've brocht hame a blush like a rose on your cheek,
An' a tear-drap shines bricht in your ee-
An' a tear-drap shines bricht in your ee.
"Ye've aye been my comfort: it's lang been my pride To hear a' speak well o' my Nannie:
'Twad break my puir heart should ye skaith e'er betide, Or something come ower ye no cannie
Or something come ower ye no cannie."
"I'll aye be your comfort, an' aye be your pride,
Sae think na o' things that's no cannie;
The blush that ye see is the blush o' the bride,
Yet fear na ye'll no tine your Nannie--
Yet fear na ye'll no tine your Nannie.
"While plettin' green rashes aboon the mill-dam,
Far up the lift sang the lark cheerie;
Wi' licht heart and winsome smiles young Willie cam',
An' fondly he ca'd me his dearie-
An' fondly he ca'd me his dearie."
"Ye puir silly thing, ye'll this day sairly rue;
The laird's son wad ne'er enter my door:
Oh! ae thing tak' tent, there's nae guid end in view
When the rich folk get grit wi' the poor-
When the rich folk get grit wi' the poor."
"Oh! trust your leal lassie, this day I'll ne'er rue,
The laird's son will sune enter your door;
For he's comin' at gloamin', wi' guid ends in view,
To wed me, an' mak' rich o' the poor-
To wed me, an' mak' rich o' the poor.
"He ca'd me his dautie, he ca'd me his doo,
Stole a bit kiss at our partin' embrace:
I spak' na a word, for my heart it was fu',
But my answer he read in my face-
But my answer he read in my face."
'I raither wad live in my cot than his ha'
The puir cot, lassie, whaur ye was born.
Ye canna frae care flee, although ye be braw,
For the bonnie moss-rose has its thorn—
For the bonnie moss-rose has its thorn."
The gloamin' sune cam', an' wi't Willie, busked fine, His young cottage-bride, Nannie, to claim:
There's nae face that's human e'er looked mair divine Than it did when she took his proud nameThan it did when she took his proud name.
There were music an' mirth in Mavis-Bank Ha',
An' ilka ane pledged a fu' tassie
To the bride young an' bonnie, the fairest o' a',
The cottager widow's ac lassie-
The cottager widow's ac lassic.
IN IMITATION OF HIAWATHA.
NENT oak-wooded Contra Costa,
Built on hills, stands San Francisco;
Built on tall piles Oregonian,
Deeply sunk in mud terraqueous,
Where the crabs, fat and stupendous,
Once in all their glory revelled;
And where other tribes testaceous
Felt secure in Neptune's kingdom;
Where sea-sharks, with jaws terrific,
Fled from land-sharks of the Orient;
Not far from the great Pacific,
Snug within the Gate called Golden,
By the Hill called Telegraph,
Near the Mission of Dolores,
Close by the Valley of St. Ann's,
San Francisco rears its mansions,
Rears its palaces and churches;
Built of timber, bricks, and mortar,
Built on hills and built in valleys,
Built in Beelzebubbian splendor,
Stands the city San Francisco.
Right between the point called Rincon,
And the Wharf named after Harry-
Harry Meiggs, the good and honest,
Good and honest as he could be;
Harry Meiggs, the pure and upright,
Pure as snow on the Nevada,
Upright as the forest pine-tree,
Till one morning, dark and cloudy,
Borne away on wings of canvas,
Like a thunderbolt he bolted,
Bolted far away to Chile.
Far up in her golden mountains,
There he dreams of future glory,
Of the Past and tarnished Honor;
Dreams of fools in San Francisco;
Dreams of knaves he left behind him;
Dreams of scrip and public swindlers;
Dreams of rotten banks and failures;
Dreams of prisons and the gallows;
Dreams of Law and baffled Justice;
Dreams of Old Nick strangling Conscience;
Dreams of ghosts and horrid nightmares,
That so fiendish murder slumber;
Dreams of the sword of Damocles
Hanging by a very horse-hair,
O'er the tyrant Syracusan;
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