I 've a guinea I can spend, I 've a wife, and I 've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I 've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a gla.s.s In my arbour as you pa.s.s, And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But ever when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown, The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I 've parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I 've a hundred pounds a-year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets Quiver from thy tender leaves; No one knows what thoughts between us Pa.s.s in dewy moonlight eves.

Roving memories and fancies, Travellers upon Thought's deep sea, Haunt the gay time of our May-time, O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight, Pure and kind, and good and fair, When she laugh'd the ringing music Rippled through the summer air.

"If you love me--shake the blossoms!"

Thus I said, too bold and free; Down they came in showers of beauty, Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the gra.s.s, the maiden Vow'd the vow to love me well; Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly, No one but myself can tell.

Widely spreads the smiling woodland, Elm and beech are fair to see; But thy charms they cannot equal, O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters Comes the cry; Wild are the waves around me-- Dark the sky: There is no hand to pluck me From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me, Clinging low, I am dash'd by angry billows To and fro; I hear death-anthems ringing In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes From my lips As I behold the distant White-sail'd ships O'er the white waters gleaming Where the horizon dips.

They pa.s.s; they are too lofty And remote, They cannot see the s.p.a.ces Where I float.

The last hope dies within me, With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking, I can see The new moon's crescent sailing Pallidly: And one star coldly shining Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature But my moan, The shriek of the wild petrel All alone, And roar of waves exulting To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages, Tempest trod; Strength fails me; coldness gathers On this clod; From the deep and troubled waters I cry to _Thee_, my G.o.d!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds; The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,-- And faintly stealing, Booming, pealing, Chime from the city the echoing bells; And louder, clearer, Softer, nearer, Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells; And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain, In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again, Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn, And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn; And 'mid the wild wood, Dear to childhood, Gather'd the berries that grew by the way; But all our gladness Died in sadness, Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;-- But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now With a deeper emotion than words can avow; Wherever in absence our feet might delay, We had never a joy like the joy of to-day; And home returning, Fondly yearning, Faces of welcome seem crowding the sh.o.r.e-- England! England!

Beautiful England!

Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!

And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past-- We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud; Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast; The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm, In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm: Fair though they be, There 's an isle in the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth-- The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies, There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes; Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do-- Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"

Winter and storm only nerve us the more, And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door: Strong shall we be In our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth, We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine, In the face of the slave and the coward may shine; Roses may blossom where Freedom decays, And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.

Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil, Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil: Proud let us be Of our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth-- Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp Untouch'd by mortal hand, And I the voiceless, sweet west wind, A roamer through the land.

I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings, And lo! my common air, Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee, And turn'd to music rare.

I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom, And I the gale of spring, That sought the odours of thy breath, And bore them on my wing.

No poorer thou, but richer I-- So rich, that far at sea, The grateful mariners were glad, And bless'd both thee and me.

I dream'd thou wert the evening star, And I a lake at rest, That saw thine image all the night Reflected on my breast.

Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth!

Be Harp and Rose of May;-- I need thy music in my heart, Thy fragrance on my way.

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.