I hear the shepherds mountain flute, ["A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied 'Yes, all is fair; but the sea-where is it."" Mrs. Hemans.] ARE OTHER EYES, L. E. L. VOL. I. Are other eyes beguiling, Love? Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Then gaze not on other eyes, Love; You may find many a brighter one T All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love; Though chang'd from all that now thou art, TO MARY. O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion, The wind to the hill, and the wave to the ocean, Wherever my footsteps by fancy are taken I hear thee, I see thee, thine image is there, Though far from thy bosom my love is unshaken, I'm still the true Willy to Mary the fair. Though round me the wild wintry waters are foaming Though wafted far from thee, think not thou'rt forsaken I pray with the tempest,-send sighs with the air— But live on believing that distance will waken Even higher love in me for Mary the fair. THE FISHER'S WELCOME. THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear, 'Tis mony years sin' first we met For we are hale an' hearty baith; An' climb the dykes and knowes; An we'll hae a plash among the lads, For the days o' lang syne. Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still, He's green below the knee, Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad, An' gang awa' wi' me. Come busk your flies, my auld compeer, We're fidgin' a' fu' fain, We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year, An' hameward when we toddle back, When ilka chiel maun tell his crack, We've shown we're gude at water yet, We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd, In days when we were young. We'll gar the callants a' look blue, An' sing anither tune; They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do We'll tell them what we've dune. [From a Fisher's Garland, published in Newcastle, about ten or eleven years back,] THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. SAMUEL LOVER. A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, to me! Dermot, darling! Oh, come back Her beads while she number'd The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. 'Oh, bless'd be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. ' And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me And say thou would'st rather They'd watch o'er thy father, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.' The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.' |