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To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy liver!

With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to the Almighty giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!
Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on,
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.

TO A SEXTON,

LET thy wheelbarrow alone-
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bonehouse bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid,

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform, eight feet square,

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fireside is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended.

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride

How he glories, when he sees

Roses, lilies, side by side,

Violets in families!

By the heart of man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old grey-beard! art the warden

Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there, and Susan here,

Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the loved and lover!

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snowdrops? circlet bright'
How glorious to this orchard ground!

Who loved the little rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some love-sick maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age?

I asked 'twas whispered, the device
To each or all might well belong:
It is the spirit of paradise

That prompts such work, a spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion,
O'er the rocks the chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less he loves his haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave;
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never-never does the trouble
Of the wanderer leave my soul.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

SEVEN daughters had Lord Archibald,

All children of one mother:

I could not say in one short day

What love they bore each other.

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Beside a grotto of their own.

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade

They he like fawns reposing

The Seven Sisters p. 347

A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie !

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of man and steed,

Away they fly to left, to right

Of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:
Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,
And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap

Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

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