CLOCK-A-CLAY

In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green gra.s.s beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay.

Waiting for the time o' day.

While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sight; In the cowslip pips I lie, In the rain still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the gra.s.s beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.

SPRING

Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes, Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks; Where the blue unclouded sky Spreads the sweetest canopy, And Study wiser grows without her books.

Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose; Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows-- Meadow pinks and columbines, Kecksies white and eglantines, And music of the bee that seeks the rose.

Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks, Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles; Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks, Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles; Come in thy proud and best array, April dews and flowers of May, And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.

EVENING

In the meadow's silk gra.s.ses we see the black snail, Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew, While even's one star glitters over the vale, Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue.

I walk with my true love adown the green vale, The light feathered gra.s.ses keep tapping her shoe; In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale, And the blades of the gra.s.ses are sprinkled with dew.

If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck, As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose: Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take The mild voice of even will never disclose.

Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek, That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew; Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek-- The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.

THE SWALLOW

Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath, Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies; As swiftly flies its shadow underneath, And on his wing the twittering sunbeam lies, As bright as water glitters in the eyes Of those it pa.s.ses; 'tis a pretty thing, The ornament of meadows and clear skies: With dingy breast and narrow pointed wing, Its daily twittering is a song to Spring.

JOCKEY AND JENNY

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither?

Will Jockey come to-day?

He's taen sic likings to my brither He's sure to come the day."

"Haud yer tongue, la.s.s, mind your rockie; But th'other day ye wore a pockie.

What can ye mean to think o' Jockey?

Ye've bin content the season long, Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."

"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither, If love's a sin in youth; He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither, But I know the secret truth.

He's courted me the year, mither; Judge not the matter queer, mither; Ye're a' the while as dear, mither, As ye've been the Summer long.

I cannot sing my song.

I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither; I'se bin a child ower lang; He led me frae the teaching, mither, Ann wherefore did he wrang?

I ken he often tauks wi' brither; I neither look at ane or 't.i.ther; You ken as well as I, mither, There's nae love in my song, Though I've sang the Summer long."

"Nae, dinna be sae saucy, la.s.sie, I may be kenned ye ill.

If love has taen the hold, la.s.sie, There's nae cure i' the pill."

"Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither; He leuks at me and tauks to ither; And twice we've bin at kirk thegither.

I'm 's well now as a' Summer long, But somehew cauna sing a song.

He comes and talks to brither, mither, But leuks his thoughts at me; He always says gude neet to brither, And looks gude neet to me."

"La.s.sie, ye seldom vexed yer mither; Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither; So be ye are to come thegither, I'll be nae damp to yer new claes; Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'"

Jockey comes o' Sabbath days, His face is not a face o'er bra.s.sy; Her mither sits to praise the claes; Holds him her box; to win the la.s.sie He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny, And helps his chair up nearer Jenny, And vows he loves her muir than any.

She thinks her mither seldom wrong, And "Loggan braes" is her daily song.

THE FACE I LOVE SO DEARLY

Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, But sweeter far than all to me Is she I love so dearly; Than perfumed pea and sable bee, The face I love so dearly.

Sweeter than hedgerow violets blue, Than apple blossoms' streaky hue, Or black-eyed bean-flower blebbed with dew Is she I love so dearly; Than apple flowers or violets blue Is she I love so dearly.

Than woodbine upon branches thin, The clover flower, all sweets within, Which pensive bees do gather in, Three times as sweet, or nearly, Is the cheek, the eye, the lip, the chin Of her I love so dearly.

THE BEANFIELD

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet, How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours!

When seething night is left upon the flowers, And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field, The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers, And sweet the fragrance which the union yields To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.

WHERE SHE TOLD HER LOVE

I saw her crop a rose Right early in the day, And I went to kiss the place Where she broke the rose away; And I saw the patten rings Where she o'er the stile had gone, And I love all other things Her bright eyes look upon.

If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree, That whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.