For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipp'd my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary.

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly,
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE COLD OLD SONG

WHEN all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;

Young blood must have its course,
lad,

And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down :
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

AUX ITALIENS.

AT Paris it was, at the opera there ;

And she look'd like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, "Non ti scordar di me"?

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,
Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye:

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back

again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride betroth'd and I ;
My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad;

Like a queen she lean'd on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had,

So confident of her charm!

I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,

As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together.

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),
And her warm white neck in its golden chain,
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast,
(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !)
And the one bird singing alone to his nest,
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring;
And it all seem'd then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over,
And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her, and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold;