Your banes against my ingle-back
Wi’ meikle pleasure.
Deil mend ye i’ his workshop black,
E’en at his leisure!
I ’ll brak ye’re neck, ye foul auld sinner,
I ’ll spill ye’re bluid, ye vile beginner
O’ a’ the ills an’ aches that winna
Quat saul an’ body!
Gie me hale breeks an’ weel-spread dinner—
Deil tak’ ye’re toddy!
Nae mair wi’ witches’ broo gane gyte,
Gie me ance mair the auld delight
O’ sittin’ wi’ my bairns in sight,
The gude wife near,
The weel-spent day, the peacefu’ night,
The mornin’ cheer!
Cock a’ ye’re heids, my bairns fu’ gleg,
My winsome Kobin, Jean, an’ Meg,
For food and claes ye shall na beg
A doited daddie,
Dance, auld wife, on your girl-day leg,
Ye ’ve foun’ your laddie!
THE FAIR QUAKERESS
She was a fair young girl, yet on her brow
No pale pearl shone, a blemish on the pure
And snowy lustre of its living light,
No radiant gem shone beautifully through
The shadowing of her tresses, as a star
Through the dark sky of midnight; and no wreath
Of coral circled on her queenly neck,
In mockery of the glowing cheek and lip,
Whose hue the fairy guardian of the flowers
Might never rival when her delicate touch
Tinges the rose of springtime.
Unadorned,
Save by her youthful charms, and with a garb
Simple as Nature’s self, why turn to her
The proud and gifted, and the versed in all
The pageantry of fashion?
She hath not
Moved down the dance to music, when the hall
Is lighted up like sunshine, and the thrill
Of the light viol and the mellow flute,
And the deep tones of manhood, softened down
To very music melt upon the ear.—
She has not mingled with the hollow world
Nor tampered with its mockeries, until all
The delicate perceptions of the heart,
The innate modesty, the watchful sense
Of maiden dignity, are lost within
The maze of fashion and the din of crowds.
Yet Beauty hath its homage. Kings have bowed
From the tall majesty of ancient thrones
With a prostrated knee, yea, cast aside
The awfulness of time-created power
For the regardful glances of a child.
Yea, the high ones and powerful of Earth,
The helmëd sons of victory, the grave
And schooled philosophers, the giant men
Of overmastering intellect, have turned
Each from the separate idol of his high
And vehement ambition for the low
Idolatry of human loveliness;
And bartered the sublimity of mind,
The godlike and commanding intellect
Which nations knelt to, for a woman’s tear,
A soft-toned answer, or a wanton’s smile.
And in the chastened beauty of that eye,
And in the beautiful play of that red lip,
And in the quiet smile, and in the voice
Sweet as the tuneful greeting of a bird
To the first flowers of springtime, there is more
Than the perfection of the painter’s skill
Or statuary’s moulding. Mind is there,
The pure and holy attributes of soul,
The seal of virtue, the exceeding grace
Of meekness blended with a maiden pride;
Nor deem ye that beneath the gentle smile,
And the calm temper of a chastened mind
No warmth of passion kindles, and no tide
Of quick and earnest feeling courses on
From the warm heart’s pulsations. There are springs
Of deep and pure affection, hidden now,
Within that quiet bosom, which but wait
The thrilling of some kindly touch, to flow
Like waters from the Desert-rock of old.
BOLIVAR
A dirge is wailing from the Gulf of storm-vexed Mexico,
To where through Pampas’ solitudes the mighty rivers flow;
The dark Sierras hear the sound, and from each mountain rift,
Where Andes and Cordilleras their awful summits lift,
Where Cotopaxi’s fiery eye glares redly upon heaven,
And Chimborazo’s shattered peak the upper sky has riven;
From mount to mount, from wave to wave, a wild and long lament,
A sob that shakes like her earthquakes the startled continent!
A light dies out, a life is sped—the hero’s at whose word
The nations started as from sleep, and girded on the sword;
The victor of a hundred fields where blood was poured like rain,
And Freedom’s loosened avalanche hurled down the hosts of Spain,
The eagle soul on Junin’s slope who showed his shouting men
A grander sight than Balboa saw from wave-washed Darien,
