28 BALLANTINE · BARBAULD. JAMES BALLANTINE. ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' Dew. CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind, Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye'll win through For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o'dew. Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie, Say not Good Night, but in some Where is, O Grave! thy victory now! brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. And where, insidious Death, thy sting! Protected industry beneath thy reign To public plenty, private ease di Leads all the virtues in her filial lates, Domestic peace, to harmony of states. And sweeps, with forceful arm, to Kings from the earth and pirates from the waves. LADY ANNE BARNARD. AULD ROBIN GRAY. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame, The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride, Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, My father cou'dna work - my mother cou'dna spin; My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back; My father argued sair my mother didna speak, I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, Till he said, "I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!" O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin. SLOWLY I circle the dim, dizzy stair, Wrapt in my cloak's gray fold, Holding my heart lest it throb to the air Its radiant secret, for though I be old, Though I totter and rock like a ship in the wind, And the sunbeams come unto me broken and blind, But their ears only hear mighty melodies ringing, And their souls never know 'tis my angel there singing, That the grand organ-angel awakes in his cell Under my spell. There in the midst of the wandering pipes, Far from the gleaming keys, Yet my spirit drinks youth from And the organ-front with its gilded the treasure we hold, Richer than gold. stripes, My glorious angel lies sleeping at ease. Princes below me, lips wet from the And the hand of a stranger may beat wine, at his gate, And the ear of a stranger may listen and wait, But he only cries in his pain for these, Witless to please. |