And now she works her mammie's wark,

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;

Yet wistna what her ail might be,

Or what wad mak' her weel again.

78

BONNIE JEAN.

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae c'enin on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest,

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love :

"O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me."

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands:
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow ;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

M

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard rough hand he wipes

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.