Farewell, then-for a while, farewell Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And, dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy! DAVID MACBETH MOIR. WILLIE WINKIE. WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?—for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; A giftie God gied us: We maun na luve the gift owre weel; 'Twad be na blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, J. E. RANKIN. THE DUMB CHILD. SHE is my only girl: I ask'd for her as some most precious thing, But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' For all unfinish'd was love's jewell'd ring asleep. Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glowerin' The shade that time brought forth I could like the moon, Till set with this soft pearl: not see; How pure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to me! Oh, many a soft old tune Skirlin' like a kenna-what - wauknin' I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear, sleepin' folk. Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, And suffer'd not the lightest footstep near, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her Ah, needless care! I might have let them thrums: Hey, Willie Winkie!-See, there he comes! Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. WILLIAM MILLER. THE BABIE. NAE shoon to hide her tiny taes, play! 'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me: Waited and watch'd. God knows how patiently! How willingly deceived! Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, And tended Hope until it starved to death. Oh if she could but hear For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach To call me mother, in the broken speech |