I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,

That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

Robert Burns.

AUTUMN.

WITH what a glory comes and goes the year;
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the cluster'd trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillar'd clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimson'd, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

The golden robin moves.

Through the trees

The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well perform'd, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings; He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

NOW WESTLIN WINDS.

Longfellow.

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;

The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel-bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;

Some social join, and leagues combine
Some solitary wander;