Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles, nae: doubt, ye 've been, Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud less sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night wi' balmy breath gaurs verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poor tith's ee, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808— CARELESS CONTENT. I AM content, I do not care, I counted cost and was content. With more of thanks and less of thought, Physic and food in sour and sweet: With good and gentle-humour'd hearts, For chance or change of peace or pain, For Fortune's favour or her frown, For lack or glut, for loss or gain, I never dodge, nor up nor down; But swing what way the ship shall swim, Or tack about with equal trim. I suit not where I shall not speed, Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, I shun the rancours and the routs ; And wishing well to every wight, With whom I feast I do not fawn, I cook no kind of a complaint: With none disposed to disagree, Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave, I love a friendship free and frank, Fond of a true and trusty tie, I never loose where'er I link ; Though if a business budges by, I talk thereon just as I think; My word, my work, my heart, my hand, If names or notions make a noise, And read or write, but without wrath ; I love my neighbour as myself, Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has design'd A man the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs, That man does right to mar his rest, I am content, I do not care. ANONYMOUS, (1600-1650.) THE STREAM OF LIFE. O SILVERY Streamlet of the fields, O Stream of Life! the violet springs And where thy glittering current flow'd, -American. W. C. BRYANT, 1798 MUTABILITY. FULL many a glorious morning have I seen |